


bloom

by newamsterdam



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Childhood Friends, Coming of Age, Friends to Lovers, Haikyuu BigBang 2016, Illustrated, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Multiple, Superpowers, Team Dynamics, essentially canon compliant but most characters have superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-12 01:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7914355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people develop powers as they grow older; others don't. This fact doesn’t bother Oikawa Tooru too much, at least not when he’s young. Then, at eight years old, Iwaizumi Hajime discovers his own ability. He’s stronger than anyone could be, given human limitations. It’s a broad and useful power, one that could take Iwaizumi down any number of paths in the future. He’s discovered his ability early, too, and all of the adults in the neighborhood say that he’s got a bright future ahead of him.</p><p>Oikawa could’ve told them that ages ago—he’s always known Iwaizumi is special, long before he started being able to lift furniture with one hand. Everything Iwaizumi does, Oikawa has always done with him. So he goes home and waits for his own ability to manifest.</p><p>Nearly ten years later, on the eve of the last tournament of his high school volleyball career, he’s still waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for the haikyuu!! big bang 2016.
> 
> this fic was a collaboration between [benetnash](http://benetnash.tumblr.com/), [kenmasan](http://kenmasan.tumblr.com/), and myself. i could not have asked for a better, more talented team, and i am so lucky to have been able to work with these incredible people to create a story that i hope you'll really enjoy! 
> 
> benetnash is our master of artwork, and created the beautiful illustrations that accompany this story. the art had a lot of influence on the tone and imagery of this fic, so i hope you'll enjoy it as much as i have. all the glancing references to kyouhaba in this story are dedicated to you!
> 
> kenmasan is our guardian deity of grammar and misplaced commas, as well as the keeper of storytelling. i couldn't have had a more patient and diligent beta, and her enthusiasm for the story really kept me going. and while i'm sorry there isn't more matsuhana in this fic, what does exist is for you. 
> 
> all of us have contributed to a playlist for this fic, which you can find [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s10g4dNXRwM&list=PLZqSnDCE6REOHQa-JsPffUR914TkRUal1).

The gymnasium is frozen in time, each detail so stark and potent in Oikawa’s mind that he thinks this must be the onset of some latent power. Maybe he actually slowed time, or he’s gained an extra perception, or his consciousness is somehow removed from his body, watching the scene unfold from a different vantage point.

Of course, any of those things could be possible, for anyone but him. Despite knowing that, a part of him still hopes, and hopes desperately.

But he has no extra perception, no supernatural vantage point. If every cell in his body feels supercharged, it’s because he’s running off the adrenaline of two consecutive matches, sweat clinging to his skin and running down the back of his neck. Every squeak of sneakers across the gym floor is an alarm bell, demanding he take notice and be ready.

Six black jerseys form a dark cloud in front of him, the volleyball somewhere above their heads. Oikawa spares a glance for his own team, white and aquamarine in perfect position to block. And there, at the center of their front line, stands Iwaizumi. His shoulders never slump even as his knees bend, his muscles never tire as he braces for an attack.

He’s only ever gotten stronger, since Oikawa has known him. Some days, Oikawa doesn’t know whether to be impressed or jealous, but the uncertain combination sits like boiling water in his stomach, painful and volatile.

Iwaizumi leans in, beckoning Kindaichi and Kyoutani closer. Oikawa can’t hear his words, but he can feel the tenor of Iwaizumi’s voice, rich and rough like the deepest notes of a cello.

They’re a strong team of blockers, even if they don’t have the benefit of Datekou’s size and talents. And beyond the front line, there’s Hanamaki, can predict the path of the ball and guide the block into the best position with his ecological empathy. Kindaichi has the benefit of his height, and he’s always at his best when standing next to Iwaizumi, his abilities contingent on his confidence. The stronger he feels, the stronger he _is_. Kyoutani, who manipulates kinetic energy, can force the ball back with explosive energy. And Iwaizumi has the strength to slam down any ball decisively, without any hope of recovery by the other team.

They’re perfect, Oikawa thinks distantly, talented and dedicated and _special_. It has to be enough.

But then a shadow falls across the court. Kageyama steps forward, brow furrowed in concentration and—

And how dare he, _really_? How dare he wear fatigue and strain so plainly on his face when Oikawa knows how easily this all comes to him, how he barely has to try, because a single thought can summon the ball to his fingertips and send it off again to perfect position.

Some small part of Oikawa lights with pride, knowing that he has been the one to etch that furrow into Kageyama’s brow, forcing him into effort that goes beyond his natural talents. Oikawa is going to beat him, is going to ensure Kageyama will never be able to rest on his laurels.

An untrained eye wouldn’t notice the way the ball reacts to Kageyama’s presence, hovering just above his fingertips. But Oikawa has seen this from every angle—he’s done that same set up thousands of times, but without the benefit of Kageyama’s powers. He’d seen Kageyama’s abortive attempts in his first year of middle school, the ball constantly veering off-course until he’d finally gained mastery over it. And Oikawa had been in the stands, watching, when Kageyama had developed his perfect toss on the court, in the midst of a match, only to belatedly realize that none of his teammates could keep up with him.

No one should be able to match that toss. But as the ball falls down against Kageyama’s fingers and is thrust away, towards the net, a streak of orange and black rips past the rest of the crows.

He’s probably shouting something, Karasuno’s Number Ten. He has a tendency to do that. But Oikawa isn’t really hearing anything at the moment, a roar rushing through his ears like he’s just jumped headfirst into a swimming pool, the water crashing over him and cutting off all other noise.

It doesn’t matter. He knows what the outcome will be if he doesn’t react, now. If they lose this point, it’s all over.

Damn the little brat, though. No one should be able to move like that. He darts across the court like a flash of lightning, the only one able to match Kageyama’s impossibly fast, impossibly perfect toss.

The speed that Number Ten builds with his mad dash propels him upwards as he kicks up off the court, legs bent nearly double as he extends his hand towards the ball.

Oikawa thinks he knows, the instant Number Ten’s palm slams into the ball.

Kyoutani’s energy and Iwaizumi’s strength and Kindaichi’s confidence won’t block this. The ball slams into and past the block, and Oikawa knows that Hanamaki’s awareness is useless. Even Watari, who can selectively attract things towards him, is rendered useless by a spike this fast. But everything is still floating past Oikawa in slow motion, and he can see exactly where the ball is heading.

It’s like he’s swimming—lunging desperately through water that continues to drag him down, making his movements too slow. Or maybe anyone would feel slow after watching Karasuno’s Number Ten, with his superhuman speed. Either way, it’s not enough.

Oikawa moves with desperation, arms extended. His eyes are wide, his hair a sweat-matted mess against his forehead. There’s the pain of fatigue running up his bones, worse in one ankle and the curve of his right knee.

He can see it. Exactly where he has to be, exactly what position he needs to be in to receive that god-like quick.

If he was a teleporter, he’d already be there. If his limbs were malleable like rubber, his arms could extend to catch the ball. If he had superhuman endurance, he wouldn’t be so tired and slow in this moment. If he was precognitive, he would’ve been positioned there from the start, or motioned for the block to be in better position. If only, if only—

But none of that really matters now, does it? Because Oikawa Tooru has no particular talent. And the ball hits his wrist with enough force to bruise, but ricochets away just as quickly, slamming down against the polished surface of the court with a deafening thud.

Oikawa stays frozen in an awkward position even as time returns to its normal flow around him, voices and sounds rising up like he’s just broken through the surface of the ocean.

He doesn’t listen to any of it, barely sees the people around him. All he can think of is that if he’d had a power, any power at all, his team would not have just lost the final match of his high school career.

*

Iwaizumi turns eight first. It really isn’t fair, because June comes before July every year, and so Oikawa is constantly lagging behind. He says as much to his mother and Iwaizumi’s and the other aunties gathered at Iwaizumi’s birthday party, and they laugh with him and pinch his cheeks and ruffle his hair, exclaiming to his mother just how cute and darling her son is.

He’s not really sure what to make of their reactions, but he registers that they’re positive. He files that bit of information away, too young to really parse its nuances yet.

And in any case, it doesn’t solve his problem. Iwaizumi is now eight years old, and he’ll be able to hold that fact over Oikawa’s head for over a month until Oikawa catches up.

“You’re not gonna catch up,” Iwaizumi says as they walk to school a few days later, swinging their hands upwards and back. Oikawa’s been holding Iwaizumi’s hand on the way to school for years, now, and barely registers the motion.

“I will,” Oikawa insists, tossing his head. “My birthday’s coming, soon.”

“Yeah, but you’re still younger than me,” Iwaizumi says matter-of-factly.

Oikawa frowns at him, tugging his hand out of Iwaizumi’s grip. “I’m going to catch up,” he says forcefully.

Iwaizumi frowns down at his now-empty palm. “You’re being a baby,” he mumbles.

Indignation rises in Oikawa like lava in a volcano, about to erupt. “I am _not_ ,” he screeches. He turns abruptly, spotting the elementary school and running a few meters ahead of Iwaizumi towards it.

“Oi, Tooru!” Iwaizumi calls out, running to catch up. “Wait for me, you big baby!”

Oikawa turns his head, sticking out his tongue at Iwaizumi and not slowing until he’s well past the school gate. By the time they both reach their classroom, Oikawa feels dizzy, his skin running hot.

It _is_ summer, the air too warm and humid. He shakes his head and tucks his backpack beside his chair, giving Iwaizumi a flat look when his best friend kicks the bottom of his chair from behind him to get his attention.

The clock drags slowly towards lunchtime, and all the while Oikawa only feels worse. He thinks he’s sweating, and even though he hadn’t eaten much this morning his stomach is churning. He barely registers what his teacher is saying.

“When you move on from elementary school,” she says, chalk floating near her head and moving to write notes on the blackboard at the slight gesture of her fingers, “The middle school you attend will be based on whether or not you’ve developed powers by that point. Not everyone will get theirs before you graduate, so you may find yourself transferring in your second or third year. That’s perfectly normal.”

Oikawa shifts uncomfortably, laying his chin flat against his desk in the hopes that the coolness of the surface will ease his heated skin. This isn’t even an important lesson—every student in his class already knows all of this. Oikawa doesn’t know why his teachers insist on repeating the same lesson, year after year.

“Of course, many people never develop powers at all. And that’s alright, too,” his teacher continues, the chalk beside her drawing a large circle on the board and then bisecting it into two uneven slices. “At the last census, forty percent of adults in Japan had developed some sort of ability that went beyond the capacities of the average human. So it’s likely that less than half of you will develop your own powers in the next few years.”

Oikawa very much feels like he’s going to throw up. The movement of the chalk is dizzying, and he wonders if he’s supposed to be seeing one piece suddenly becoming three. Probably not.

There’s a kick at the back of his chair.

“What’s wrong?” Iwaizumi asks in a low whisper. “You keep moving.”

He opens his mouth to answer, but the gorge rises in his throat and he snaps his mouth shut, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass. It fades a bit, but the pressure in his body is insistent.

“I need to use the bathroom,” he announces, loudly, at the same time he thrusts his arm into the air, waving it to get his teacher’s attention.

She cuts off mid-sentence, turning towards Oikawa with narrowed eyes. She’s doubtlessly wondering why one of her best-behaved students has suddenly forgotten all of his carefully-trained manners.

“Go on,” she nods at him, and Oikawa wobbles slightly on his feet before dashing out the door. “No running, Tooru!”

He barely pays her any attention. He moves quickly down the hallway, afraid he’ll fall over if he slows down. When he reaches it, the tiled bathroom is like a haven. He sinks down to his knees against the wall, letting the back of his neck and head press against the cool ceramic.

He waits patiently for his head to stop spinning, hugging his knees close to his chest. But the room keeps fading in and out of view around him, and the heat under his skin is pushing at him like water against a dam. He pulls himself towards the sink, hovering over it and waiting to throw up. But nothing comes, and he just feels tired out from standing.

The nurse’s office is probably his best option, at this point. But even at seven years old, Oikawa is easily embarrassed, and he feels hot and sticky and disgusting. He doesn’t want to shuffle out of the bathroom and back to class, only to ask to be excused to the nurse. He glances at the mirror—he doesn’t look particularly sick, but his eyes are glassy and sweat is gathering against his hairline. Most embarrassingly, he keeps shifting on his feet, unable to sit still or school his expression.

No, the best option is definitely to wait here until he feels better. He already feels a little bit better, away from the restless energy of two dozen other students and the tap-tap-screech of his teacher’s chalk against the blackboard.

Oikawa goes back to his spot against the wall, sitting back down with his legs pulled up against his chest and chin balanced against his knees. He thinks about his family pediatrician, Sato-sensei, who can ease pain and fevers just by laying her hands against someone’s skin. He wishes he had that power, now, or that Sato-sensei were here. Or his mother, whose voice is soothing and persuasive. She’d probably pick him up in her arms and rock him gently, the power of her voice easing his body to sleep so that he wouldn’t have to feel sick and uncomfortable anymore.

Even if he does have one of those abilities, he won’t know until he’s older. Right now, just surviving until the end of the school day seems like an impossible challenge. He groans, curling up more tightly and gritting his teeth, willing the discomfort away.

He’s not sure exactly how long he waits there, but eventually he hears a knock at the door and lifts his head.

“Who is it?” he asks, one hand pressed against his stomach as though that will somehow help. “Go away!”

There’s a low grumble outside the door, and then, loudly, “Open up! You’ve been in there for an hour!”

“Iwa-chan?”

He’s struck by the desire to open the door and let Iwaizumi in. Aside from his mom, Iwaiziumi is the person who’s best at making him feel better. The last time he’d eaten too much ice cream at another friend’s birthday party, Iwaizumi had carried Oikawa home on his back, even though he’d complained about it the entire time. Iwaizumi could definitely make him feel better, now.

But before he can push himself to his feet and unlock the door, Oikawa thinks better of it. Iwaizumi already thinks he’s a baby, after all. What will he say now if he thinks that Oikawa can’t take care of himself? He’s seven, not an infant. He should be better than this, by now.

“Oi – ka – wa,” Iwaizumi says, punctuating each syllable with another knock on the door. “Open up. What’re you doing in there?”

“Nothing,” he calls back, a little desperately. “I’m fine! Go back to class!”

“It’s lunchtime,” Iwaizumi retorts. “Are you sick? Come on, let me in.”

Of course Iwaizumi would figure it out. Oikawa bites down on the inside of his cheek, weighing his options. Iwaizumi would take care of him, if Oikawa let him inside. But he’s been feeling, increasingly lately, that Iwaizumi always comes across as the stronger one in their friendship. Oikawa wants to be the one taking care of him, for a chance.

Pride wins out. “Nope,” Oikawa trills. “Go away. Go eat your lunch.”

He hears vague murmuring from the other side of the door.

“What?” he asks, tilting his head. The conversation is at least distracting from how thoroughly awful he feels.

“I _said_ , you’re stupid and if you don’t let me in I’m telling on you.”

“ _Iwa-chan_!” Oikawa is entirely scandalized. Of course, Iwaizumi isn’t always openly nice to him, but he’d thought that being best friends would come with a certain degree of loyalty. Iwaizumi is not allowed to make fun of him in front of other kids, and certainly isn’t allowed to tell on him.

“If you don’t want me to, open the door,” Iwaizumi says, voice brokering no argument.

“No.” He clutches his head in his hands, trying to find some way of alleviating the pain there. He hates the way his voice wobbles when he says, “Go _away_ , Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi says something he can’t hear. Then he starts knocking on the door again, more and more insistently. The noise reverberates in Oikawa’s skull, so loud that Oikawa can’t really focus on anything else.

“Stop that,” he growls.

“Let me in,” Iwaizumi retorts.

But Oikawa is nothing if not impossibly stubborn, and now that he’s decided he doesn’t want Iwaizumi’s help he’s not going to change his mind. His toes curl inside his shoes, fingers still clutched in his thick brown hair.

Iwaizumi doesn’t respond for a moment, though Oikawa can hear him still jostling the door. Oikawa tries to tune out the noise, pressing his head between his knees and trying very, very hard not to throw up.

There’s a sound like ripping, like when Oikawa tears pieces of construction paper apart for art projects, only the sound is too loud, too _big_. He looks up in alarm and sees the door to the bathroom tearing away from the frame with a deafening noise.

Oikawa scrambles to his feet just as the door comes away entirely, lifted back at an odd angle to reveal Iwaizumi Hajime, red-faced and brow furrowed in concentration as he holds up the door _in one hand_ , having just _ripped it off its hinges_.

“Why didn’t you let me in?” Iwaizumi demands, looking furious and still holding up the door, “You look terrible! You should’ve told the teacher to call your mom!”

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says faintly, eyes round as the moon as he tracks the movement of the door. “Um…”

“Well?” Iwaizumi demands. “What were you thinking?”

Oikawa really doesn’t have an answer for him. He points vaguely at the door, and Iwaizumi glances at it, registering for the first time what he’d just done.

“Oh,” he says quietly, setting the door gingerly down on the floor. He tries to lay it upright, but it falls over against the ground with slamming noise. “Um.”

“ _Iwa-chan_ ,” Oikawa says, a little faint and a little exasperated. He’s suddenly more tired than sick, the room cloudy in his vision.

“Hey!” Iwaizumi calls out, alarmed as Oikawa pitches forward on his feet. He moves and catches Oikawa by the shoulders just as two teachers come rushing down the hallway, alerted by the noise.

It’s not completely unheard of. There’s a girl in Oikawa’s neighborhood who’s had her powers almost since birth, her eyes changing color to reflect her mood. But gifts like that are rare, and most people come into their powers sometime between ages twelve and fourteen. Iwaizumi is only eight, and he’s just shown an incredibly developed ability.

At least, that’s what the principal tells Iwaizumi’s mother when she and Oikawa’s mom come to pick the two of them up. Oikawa, who’d been sitting up before the two women arrived, immediately flops back onto his side when he sees them, clutching at his stomach again.

“My poor Tooru,” his mother croons, kneeling to pick him up once she’s laid a hand against his forehead. “Did you get sick, baby?”

Oikawa nods, though his eyes are still trained on where Iwaizumi is standing beside his mother. He’s tugging nervously on the strap of his backpack, and before Oikawa can tell him that probably isn’t the best idea it snaps in two.

“Oh, my,” Iwaizumi’s mother says with a laugh. She ruffles Iwaizumi’s hair, but he keeps looking at the two pieces of the torn strap with a grumpy frown.

The four of them head out to the car together—the two mothers had decided to carpool, apparently—and Iwaizumi spends the short ride home staring out the window, pensive. Oikawa stares at Iwaizumi, trying to decide what he thinks about his friend’s newfound strength.

By the next morning, Oikawa isn’t feeling sick at all. He waits for Iwaizumi on the curb outside his house like he does every morning, so they can walk to school together. Iwaizumi shows up a few minutes late, and when Oikawa waves a hand at him he doesn’t reach out to take it.

Oikawa frowns at him. They always hold hands on the way to school, yesterday’s brief aberration aside.

“What’s wrong?” Oikawa asks, tilting his head to one side.

Iwaizumi flushes, his cheeks going rounder as he pouts. “I’m not supposed to touch anyone right now,” he mutters. “Until I figure out how not to be too strong, all the time.”

Oh. Oikawa supposes that makes sense, though he can’t really imagine a scenario in which Iwaizumi would actually hurt him. 

It’s the first way Iwaizumi’s powers change both of their lives, if only slightly.

But after school, when Oikawa waits for Iwaizumi by the gate, the other boy comes bounding towards him ten minutes late.

“I have to go to extra classes,” he says, out of breath from running. “With the other powered kids.”

Oikawa knows that there are four students who have manifested powers at their school. There’s Risa-chan, with her color-changing eyes, and then two students who’ll graduate to middle school next year. And now Iwaizumi.

“I see,” Oikawa says, unsure of why his eyes feel like they’re burning.

“You’ll have to walk home on your own,” Iwaizumi continues. Then, almost apologetically, “It’s only gonna be twice a week.”

Oikawa nods. “Of course, Iwa-chan,” he trills, smiling brightly. “See you later!”

That night, when he’s lying awake in bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck across his ceiling, Oikawa realizes the most important thing that’s changed in the past few days.

If Iwaizumi has powers, now, he’ll definitely be going to a powered middle school in a few years. And if Oikawa wants to go with him, he’ll have to develop powers by then, too.

And so begins a nightly ritual, of Oikawa staring up at the ceiling and waiting for whatever his power will be to manifest. He tries not to be too disappointed when nothing happens, with a few days. But then a few days turns into a few weeks, and then months, and then the last few years of elementary school are slipping by, and his powers never come.

*

The lights in the gymnasium are too bright, blazing down on him with an unforgiving glare. He pulls himself up from the lunge he’d dived into, going after that last ball, because under such a spotlight he will not allow himself to look weak. But even as he does, he sees the other members of his team falling to their knees, eyes cast downwards as though they cannot bare to face the truth of this moment.

He can’t look at them, not like this. He takes a step forward, past them and towards the net, and his gaze catches on a pair of deep blue eyes, oil-dark and gleaming with victory.

Oikawa has often wondered if there’s anything that actually separates him from Kageyama. From an outsider’s perspective, surely he should be the more successful one. He’s been working hard, pushing his limits, for practically his entire life. He _looks_ like he should be a success story, the one who’s best suited to wear a crown atop his head. At least, he knows how to smile for the cameras.

But looking into Kageyama’s blue eyes, now, he can see the subtle glow of power behind them. Kageyama can manipulate the world with a single thought, moving objects with the force of his mind. If he had any kind of intelligence, or ambition for anything but volleyball, he’d be nearly unstoppable. As it stands, he’s only ever felt the need to use his telekinesis to manipulate the ball and to keep others at arm’s length.

That power is something Oikawa will never have, so no matter how hard he works he’ll never be able to reach the level Kageyama is capable of. His pride balks at the thought, but then he glances back at the scoreboard and the truth of his loss settles heavily across his shoulders.

“That’s one win for each of us, now,” he says, lifting his chin and looking down his nose at his former underclassman. “Don’t think you’re better than me.”

And Kageyama, in that blandly earnest way he’s always had, merely nods in response and agrees.

Some part of Oikawa wants to reach across the net and _shake_ him, to demand that Kageyema admit that he thinks he’s better, that he knows he’s surpassed Oikawa simply on the virtue of having powers. But he knows Kageyama would never do that. His genius is born of idiocy, of a genuine appreciation of what all those around him can do, even if he’s shit at communicating that.

If Oikawa asked, what would Kageyama say he admired about him? He has no talent that Kageyama can take on for himself, no unique skill to emulate. 

He turns away before he can see Kageyama rejoin his team. Instead, he has the responsibility of his own to contend with. His faith in Seijoh is absolute, and so he knows that he will see no blame in their eyes when they all face him. They won’t place this loss on Oikawa’s shoulders, even though that’s where it belongs.

There’s grass, overgrown and filled with dandelions, sprouting up from the gym floor around the coaches’ bench and the reserve players’ box. Oikawa bites the inside of his cheek, feeling the anxiety that would have caused Yahaba to lose the ironclad control he usually has over himself. He’ll probably will the plants away before they exit the gym, his responsibility winning out over whatever else he’s feeling.

Oikawa comes to stand in the center of the crescent his team forms around the coaches’ bench, but Irihata’s words float over all of their heads, not really landing.

There’s a gentle nudge at the corner of his mind, and Oikawa recognizes the sensation of Matsukawa trying to push attention away from himself. His ability to control when people notice him is usually used for two purposes—to manipulate players on the volleyball court, or to keep people from noticing when Hanamaki pushes him up against one of the back gym walls before or after practice. It’s easy to shrug off the power now, though, which means that Matsukawa isn’t doing this on purpose. He’s instinctively trying to keep people from looking at him.

Oikawa glances at him and immediately sees why. He has his head tilted up towards the ceiling, but that doesn’t hide the tears rolling down his cheeks. Hanamaki’s crying, too, and Kindaichi’s face has long since been red with tears, his nose running unattractively.

And this is why Oikawa has tried not to look at them, until now, as the minutes have dragged by so slowly. There’s an uncomfortable, oppressive energy between them, like they’d built up too much adrenaline during the match and now it has nowhere to go. It’s stifled, lightning trapped in a bottle, and Oikawa imagines it all centering on him, ready to strike him down for failing them.

“We need to go give our greetings.” He hears his voice say the words, and is amazed that it doesn’t shake. It’s as though his body has engaged some kind of autopilot, keeping his spine straight and his hands steady as he takes the first few steps towards the stands, leading the rest of his team.

His conviction falters only when Iwaizumi gets a few steps ahead of him and then stops abruptly. Oikawa can hear his heavy intake of breath, sees the tremor in his hands as he clenches his fingers. And it isn’t _fair_ , because it’s as though Iwaizumi is expressing everything that Oikawa isn’t letting himself feel.

There should never be tears running down Iwaizumi’s face, not while he looks so utterly destroyed, not when he’s biting down on his lower lip so hard that Oikawa fears it will start to bleed.

Be strong, he thinks desperately. I’m sorry, please be strong, you’re tougher than this.

He squares his shoulders and jogs the few steps separating them, swinging his arm around to hit Iwaizumi’s back forcefully, hoping to startle him back to himself.

It must be his imagination, but Oikawa feels something spark from the contact between them, static electricity shocking them both. He keeps walking, telling himself not to dwell on the feeling.

The team lines up, pulling up their jerseys to wipe away their tears and schooling their expressions into dignified, defiant stares.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki come to stand beside Oikawa, but he glances past them to an empty spot in the lineup until Iwaizumi comes forward, expression set like stone and shoulders squared.

Only then does Oikawa face forward. “Thank you very much.”

“ _Thank you very much_.”

*

Oikawa is sitting on his front porch when Iwaizumi finally makes his way home from his supplemental classes. Oikawa has his legs folded up again his chest, chin pressed against his knees as he regards every blade of grass in his front yard individually. When he sees Iwaizumi’s trademark red sneakers, he looks up.

“You’re home—what’s that?”

Iwaizumi has his backpack hanging off of one shoulder, but both of his hands are clasped reverently around a green, red, and white ball that he holds in front of himself as he walks. He shrugs.

“It’s a volleyball.”

“I can see that,” Oikawa scoffs, dusting himself off as he gets to his feet and crosses the yard to meet Iwaizumi. “I mean, why do you have it?”

Iwaizumi presses his lips together in a firm line. “I’m going to start learning how to play.”

“Why?” Oikawa reaches out and takes the ball from Iwaizumi, spinning it between his hands experimentally. He likes the weight of it against his hands, the indentations that separate the ball into differently-colored sections.

Iwaizumi’s mouth twists, and then he sighs. “It’s supposed to help, I guess. Give me a way to channel my powers into something.” He sounds like he’s repeating someone else’s words, not quite understanding them himself.

“That didn’t work out so well with baseball,” Oikawa reminds him, thinking of an incident he’d observed just a few weeks ago.

“I didn’t _know_ the bat would snap when I hit the ball,” Iwaizumi growls. “And anyway, that’s why I’m trying something different, now.”

“So you’re going to slam the ball through the floor of the gym, is that it?” Oikawa asks innocently, batting his eyelashes.

Iwaizumi shoves him in response. “Shut up. I won’t.”

“Ow,” Oikawa huffs, dropping the volleyball to rub at his shoulder.

“Did I hurt you?” Iwaizumi asks immediately. He’s wearing the frown that means he’s concerned, or sorry, even if he won’t say as much.

“No, no,” Oikawa waves him off. “You’re just so rough, Iwa-chan. Maybe volleyball will be good for you. Shove the ball instead of me, okay?”

“It’s called spiking,” Iwaizumi informs him, grinning slightly as he stoops to retrieve the ball. “Want to try?”

“What, like you hit the ball to me and I hit it back?” Oikawa frowns slightly, tilting his head as he considers this. He’s never had much interest in sports, and generally hates getting sweaty. He’s not sure why he’s even entertaining this idea.

“No,” Iwaizumi says, “I’d hit it right through you. But maybe you can toss it up for me and I can hit it into the grass?”

He looks so eager, so hopeful, about his suggestion. And Oikawa knows the past few months have been difficult for him, trying to temper a strength that he never asked for in the first place. Iwaizumi is a tactile person—he likes touching things, and making things, and everything of the sort. Holding himself back is leading to boredom, and maybe also loneliness. Oikawa, who sits on the porch and waits for him two days a week, can relate.

He sighs dramatically. “Alright, fine. How do I toss it?”

The first time he tries, the volleyball comes back down to slam Oikawa in the nose, and Iwaizumi points a finger and laughs. But because his first attempt is unsuccessful, Oikawa is determined to try again. And so he tries, and he tries, and he tries.

Within a few days, he and Iwaizumi are playing every day after school, even though Oikawa’s mother bemoans the fate of her roses when Iwaizumi hits too hard past the grass and into her planters.

A few years later, it seems like a foregone conclusion that they’ll both join the volleyball team in middle school. It’s just a question of _which_ school’s team Oikawa is going to be on.

“I looked it up,” Oikawa says, pushing his printed research across the kitchen table towards his parents. “There’s no actual rule against me enrolling at Kitagawa Daiichi. There’s an anti-discrimination law, and everything!”

“Tooru,” his mother says, taking the papers and biting down on her lower lip. “There’s no _rule_ , but that’s not really how things are done—”

His father reaches across the table to ruffle Oikawa’s hair. “He’s just thinking ahead. Aren’t you, Tooru? Either way, we’ll have to transfer him there in a few months or a year when his powers kick in.”

Oikawa’s mother narrows her eyes at her husband, even though the appeasing smile never leaves her lips. “Don’t say things like that to him,” she hisses, and Oikawa can hear it when she kicks his father under the table.

His father coughs, looking through the papers Oikawa had passed over. “He’s smarter than all the neighborhood kids going to this school,” he insists. “And he’ll work twice as hard, anyway. Right, Tooru?”

Sensing victory, Oikawa nods vigorously. “Of course!”

His mother sighs, leaning over to take one of Oikawa’s hands in both of hers. “Of course we won’t say you can’t try, sweetheart. But you also don’t have to do this, you know? There’s no shame in going to a non-powered school.”

Oikawa’s father snorts, and she kicks him again.

And Oikawa knows she means well, but he finds himself agreeing more with his father. There _is_ shame in going to a non-powered school. It would like admitting he’s not going to get powers, to declare that he’s content with a mundane existence. And he really isn’t.

“I want to go to Kitagawa Daiichi,” he declares again. “I’m going to go there and play volleyball with Iwa-chan and we’re going to be the best team in the prefecture.”

It doesn’t end up being quite that easy. There is an anti-discrimination law on the books, but it’s rarely invoked. Parents generally don’t want to send their non-powered children to powered schools, and students transfer so often in middle school after developing their powers that there’s no real reason to fight the established norm. But that isn’t good enough for Oikawa. But when Oikawa’s parents do invoke the rule, the administration is too stunned to push back. 

They line up the first years on one side of the court for the first day of club activities. There’s a good number of them, maybe eighteen or twenty. It’s no surprise— Kitagawa Daiichi is known as a powerhouse school in more ways than one, and many students whose powers have already appeared have manifested a physical skill, like Iwaizumi’s strength, that makes them perfect candidates for sports clubs. 

Oikawa stands beside Iwaizumi, eyes slightly narrowed as he watches their upperclassmen practice. He knew it would be this way— his parents had spent weeks warning him, after they’d helped him register for school, his mother with a bit more empathy than his father. But in the end their words had come down to one condemning message: _You’ll have brought it on yourself, when you don’t measure up_.

And their upperclassmen are impressive. There’s a wing spiker who can manifest fire around the ball, making the libero on the other side of the court duck away from the ball rather than go in for the receive. There’s a middle blocker who can extend the length of his arms and legs, making him a formidable wall against any attack. Another wing spiker can pick up enough speed to hover a foot above the air, like a hummingbird, just before he spikes.

The list goes on and on. Kitagawa Daiichi’s team is made up of talented players who are taught how to make the best use of their talents. Their starting line-up is the perfect storm of abilities, each selected for its use for a particular position.

Oikawa wonders, watching them, if the players themselves are even taken into account at all, or if it’s just their powers that earn them their positions.

“Alright,” the coach calls out, finally turning to the first years. “We’re going to run through some basic drills. No powers, yet— we just want to see what you can do normally.”

Hope blooms in Oikawa’s chest. He’s grown more than a few centimeters over the past year, and his instincts are good. If they’re just playing _regular_ volleyball, he can surely distinguish himself. He’s even taller than Iwaizumi, now, and better at receives. Iwaizumi always loses interest when Oikawa recommends they practice those, saying he’d rather be spiking, instead.

“Oi,” Iwaizumi says, elbowing Oikawa in the side, “Pay attention.”

Oikawa looks up and sees one of the assistant coaches beckoning him towards the net, a look of impatience on his face. He must’ve called for Oikawa once, already. But Oikawa doesn’t let that deter him. He lifts his chin, grinning, and steps with purpose onto the court. 

And for about forty-five minutes, he’s the star of the show. Many of the other boys are still awkward in their movements, or unpracticed entirely. Oikawa knows how to serve decently, and can jump up for blocks. He doesn’t make his receives every time, but he at least knows how to dive for them. And he’s been setting to Iwaizumi for years, now, mimicking forms he’s seen on TV and getting better and better.

It’s clear to everyone at the practice that Oikawa knows the game better than any of the first years, save for perhaps Iwaizumi. Oikawa preens a little at the attention, skipping across the court to high-five Iwaizumi after a particularly successful play.

And then the head coach blows his whistle, calling them all to attention.

“Alright,” he says, looking down at his clipboard for a moment before he glances back at the first years with a critical eye. “That was fine. But now let’s see what you can really do.”

Oikawa swallows, feeling very much like a candle that has just been snuffed out. This time, when they line up, he doesn’t push to the front of the line.

It’s a simpler set of drills than the earlier practice. Each first year approaches the net, explains their power, and the coach suggests some way of demonstrating it using the volleyball.

One kid is able to guide the course of the ball using a gust of wind, bringing it in easier for a receive. Another creates small illusions, projecting an image of three volleyballs so that the original goes unnoticed until it makes contact with the other side of the court. A third can manifest forcefields around his hands, making his blocks nearly impossible to get through when he manages to keep his arms straight.

No two students seem to have the same ability, but the coaches have ideas for most of them. Not every drill goes off flawlessly, and the students are still clumsy and unused to using their gifts to such purpose. But the coaches continue to nod approvingly, jotting things down and murmuring like “there’s potential, here.”

Oikawa tries not to think too hard about what they’re going to say to him.

He’s at the back of the line, Iwaizumi right in front of him. When his best friend’s name is called, Oikawa reaches out instinctively and clutches the back of his t-shirt, holding Iwaizumi back for a moment.

“What,” Iwaizumi says, turning back to look at him. “I’ve gotta go, they’re calling me.”

“Yeah,” Oikawa says, swallowing down his anxiety and flashing a watery smile. “Go, go, Iwa-chan!”

Iwaizumi frowns at him for a moment before marching towards the net with purpose. The coaches glance down at him, waiting for his explanation of his power.

“I’m strong,” Iwaizumi says simply. But he glances back at Oikawa again, the furrow between his brows matching the severe curve of his mouth.

“Alright,” the head coach says, sounding almost excited. “We can work with that.”

Two of the assistant coaches help set the ball towards Iwaizumi, who runs up to meet it with narrowed eyes. He extends his hand for the spike and connects to the ball, but it doesn’t blast away from his hand with the resounding sound Oikawa’s become used to. Instead, it hits the opposite side of the court with little fanfare, the product of a normal eleven-year-old’s strength.

“Do you need to try again?” the head coach asks.

Iwaizumi stares at his palm, blinking slightly in confusion. He looks up and nods vigorously. “Yeah. I just— I don’t know what happened.”

They set him up again, and again he connects with the ball. Oikawa chews the inside of his cheek as a second ball leaves Iwaizumi’s hand with no particular force behind it. Iwaizumi’s been working on tempering his strength since his powers manifested, but Oikawa knows that strength is always lingering, ready to be unleashed when Iwaizumi calls on it.

So why isn’t it working, now?

He can see the tell-tale signs of anxiety in Iwaizumi’s stance, the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other and hunches his shoulders. He’s nervous, agitated for some reason. Oikawa can’t understand it— they were just playing together, and having fun.

Iwaizumi tries again, and fails again. Part of Oikawa wants to scold the coaches for pushing him so much— if nothing else, Iwaizumi keeps showing that he’s good at volleyball, even without his strength. The rest of it shouldn’t matter.

Finally, Iwaizumi misses the ball entirely, his feet hitting the court with a thud that rings too loudly in Oikawa’s ears. Iwaizumi looks up, face red, and doesn’t let the coach speak first.

“I want Oikawa to set the ball to me!” Iwaizumi says, crossing his arms over his chest stubbornly. “He does it better than you.”

The other first years all hide their faces behind their hands, scandalized that Iwaizumi’s talking back to an adult. But Iwaizumi keeps his feet planted, and the coach shakes his head.

“Fine,” he says, flipping through the stack of club registration forms on his clipboard, “Oikawa-kun?”

Oikawa steps forward, looking with pointed concern at Iwaizumi. “What are you doing?” he asks out of the corner of his mouth.

Iwaizumi frowns at him. “Just help me out.”

Oikawa shrugs, taking his place on the court. One of the assistant coaches remains to help them with the set up, but before he moves Oikawa reaches out and taps Iwaizumi on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry so much, Iwa-chan! I believe in you.”

The ball leaves his hands as easily as any had throughout the afternoon. Iwaizumi runs up to meet Oikawa’s toss, and the next moment goes by in a series of flashes— Iwaizumi’s hand meets the ball, and then the ball slams into the opposite end of the court. Except that it doesn’t bounce away, but instead cracks through the floor, embedding itself in a small crater. It’s only afterwards that the thunderous noise that accompanied Iwaizumi’s spike registers to Oikawa’s ears.

Iwaizumi’s wearing a fiercely proud smile, looking up at the head coach with a very _I-told-you-so_ expression. The coach reaches up to adjust his glasses, not at all perturbed by the damage done to his gymnasium.

“Very good, Iwaizumi-kun,” he says. He notes something down, then turns to Oikawa.

“That was certainly well done,” he says, “But what is it you can do?”

There’s no ambiguity in his question, despite the phrasing. Oikawa shuffles his feet, sensing when Iwaizumi comes up directly behind him. Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything, but his presence is enough of a comfort.

Oikawa lifts his chin, adopting a tone of deliberate nonchalance.

“Oh,” he says, “Nothing. I can’t do anything at all.”

They don’t immediately kick him out of the volleyball club, which Oikawa supposes is a kind of blessing. But even at eleven years old, he can tell how quickly the coaches lose interest in him. Some first years can’t even make it onto the court without tripping over their own feet, but because their powers have potential, they get more playtime than Oikawa does.

His response has never been to back down. He can’t stretch or light things on fire or create illusions or slam volleyballs straight through the gym floor. But he loves the game, loves playing it, and absorbs as much about it as he can. His first attempt at a jump serve is embarrassing, and his second is ridiculous.

But his third is only laughable, and after a few months he has the motions down if not the accuracy or power he wants. Oftentimes, he’ll practice alone, continuous serves again and again that have nothing to do with being gifted and come only after his body has begun to memorize every motion and responds in perfect time.

Of course, Iwaizumi was never going to let him play alone. Whenever he’s practicing his spikes, he insists that Oikawa be the one to set to him. And gradually, their other teammates begin to start requesting the same. There’s a part of Oikawa that feels he needs to earn his place amongst them, so he focuses on each player’s strengths and weaknesses, their quirks and habits. He knows who likes the ball closer to the net and who can’t hit particularly fast tosses. Eventually, all the little things he’s memorized about his teammates become second nature.

More so than his solitary serves, he loves being in the center of the court, facilitating the play of those around him. And sometimes it feels like he’s not standing in the center of the court, but rather in the middle of a garden, watching the plants bloom before his very eyes.

When the third years graduate, the coaches line up the remaining players to announce the new lineup. It only makes sense that Iwaizumi makes the starting line—no one else has a power so perfectly useful, and since the first day of tryouts Iwaizumi’s strength has never failed him. But after his name is called, the coach looks down at his clipboard ruefully, laughing to himself.

“Oikawa,” he calls out, as though he’s saying the name despite himself, “will be our setter.”

He wears his freshly-starched jersey with pride when they arrive at their first tournament. Still second years, Oikawa and Iwaizumi do their stretches together, Oikawa looking over the gym and commenting off-handedly about the other gathered teams.

“That setter, Semi, creates tornadoes,” Oikawa says, stretching his arms over his head, “And I think that first year libero does something with the weather. Thunder, maybe?”

“I’m surprised you don’t know exactly,” Iwaizumi grumbles, lifting himself up out of a lunge, “Don’t you keep charts on all these people?”

Oikawa shrugs exaggeratedly. “Well, yes, but it’s not like I have a perfect memory, or something!”

He tries not to sound too bitter when he says this. A flawless memory would be a gift, some kind of recognizable, tangible power. As it is, he’s quickly approaching his thirteenth birthday with no power at all.

Iwaizumi’s hand comes down flat against the crown of Oikawa’s head, but there’s no force behind it.

“Ow!” Oikawa protests, anyway.

“Stop thinking about that stuff,” Iwaizumi mutters. “You’re here, aren’t you? You and I are both going to be standing on the court when we win.”

Powered tournaments are a display of carefully controlled chaos. When Oikawa steps onto the court, he can feel his teammate’s powers building up slowly, their focus narrowed to just the match ahead of them. During their first few games, everyone seems to be better than usual—Iwaizumi’s spikes are stronger, their libero’s enhanced vision is nearly flawless, one of their middle blocker’s forcefields more powerful than normal.

Sometimes, Oikawa feels energy burning beneath his skin, a dull buzz that he imagines as the steady glow of the stars, the sensation of the galaxy singing back to him.

But it doesn’t last. They face Shiratorizawa Middle School in the finals, and when their second year ace steps onto the court the entire atmosphere of the tournament shifts. Oikawa’s stars stop singing, and all he can feel is an overwhelming pressure as his legs threaten to give way beneath him, his entire body heavy as lead.

“Ushijima,” their coach says with a sigh, afterward. “He has his own force of gravity.”

It explains why the ball is always drawn towards him, why he can send it off with such force. Why players around him feel weaker, intimidated not just by his formidable glare but also by the aura he exudes.

He’s only twelve years old, but his gift is already more powerful than most people’s will ever be. Oikawa tries, and fails, not to hate him on sight for that.

“Give it up,” Iwaizumi says on the bus ride home, nudging Oikawa in the shoulder when Oikawa refuses to turn away from his determined glaring out the window. “So we lost one match. It was only our first tournament. And besides, I heard Coach saying that everyone was playing better today, with you as our starting setter.”

Oikawa looks up, at that. The head coach rarely has an encouraging word for him, and acknowledges Oikawa’s usefulness to the team only despite himself.

“Really?” Oikawa asks.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “If you think I’m going to keep repeating compliments you’ve obviously heard the first time…”

“Iwa-chan! Say it again, come on!”

A year later, when their upperclassmen graduate and the new lineup is announced, Oikawa takes his new jersey, emblazoned with the number one, and holds it close to his chest. 

*

He doesn’t really remember making it back to the locker room, but by the time he’s pulled on his pants and jacket Oikawa’s head is clear again. Iwaizumi leads the team off to load the bus with their gear, and Oikawa lingers in the doorway, doing a mental headcount of their teammates as they each pad out to the parking lot, looking defeated.

“Can you handle the rest?” he asks one of the second years. “I’ll meet you at the bus.”

Oikawa can sense when the gravity around him begins to shift. He walks forward, his footsteps too heavy and his movements slow. He grimaces, because he knows exactly what’s coming next.

(“There’s no way you can tell when he’s behind you, that’s ridiculous,” Iwaizumi had said last year, snorting at him.

“I can tell when you’re behind me, too,” Oikawa sniffed primly. “It’s because you’re a savage and don’t shower enough.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Iwaizumi muttered, kicking at him.)

But aside from the heaviness in the air, there’s no denying the tall and unwelcome figure of Ushijima Wakatoshi standing in the hallway, looking at Oikawa with inscrutable golden eyes.

It’s been years since Oikawa’s knees have buckled just being around him. But the air still grows heavy, his head feeling too light. The last time Seijoh had faced Shiratorizawa in this gymnasium, Oikawa hadn’t fallen to the floor after the third set out of despair at his defeat. It was more that his body had succumbed to the pressure of fighting gravity for so long, finally coming crashing back down to earth.

“A word of advice,” Ushijima says, his deep voice cutting into Oikawa’s thoughts. Oikawa’s face contorts into a grimace as Ushijima continues, “Don’t make the same mistake, again.”

Oikawa walks past him, partly to prove that he can still move under his own power. Even Ushijima’s words feel laden and heavy, a pressure building at the base of Oikawa’s skull and behind his eyes. Oikawa huffs, determined to brush it off.

“Would you stop that?” he snaps, when he feels the force of gravity increasing, his arms heavy at his sides. He turns his head just slightly to see Ushijima blinking owlishly at him.

“I’m not doing anything,” he says, and there’s no facetiousness to him. Oikawa bites down a sigh as Ushijima resumes his earlier train of thought. “You know that, had you chosen to play somewhere else, you would have been the undisputed champion.”

Oikawa digs his teeth into the side of his cheek, hard enough to draw blood. He hasn’t played against a non-powered team since before middle school. He wouldn’t even know how to play against them, anymore, wouldn’t know what to do with a volleyball match that obeyed the laws of physics and reason.

But then again, maybe that’s not what Ushijima is referring to.

Oikawa draws an aggravated breath, spreading his hands despite the effort it takes to do so. “So should I have chosen Shiratorizawa over Seijoh? That would’ve made everything okay?” He huffs. “An unpowered setter on Shiratorizawa’s team, honestly.”

He’s still turned away from Ushijima, but he can imagine the displeased tilt of his frown.

“If you have no gifts yourself, then the only strategy is to surround yourself with unchallenged power. You chose against that because of what, your pride?”

Oikawa can’t even imagine himself standing in the middle of Shiratorizawa’s team, flanked on all sides by the veritable forces of nature that make up his team. Gravity, cyclones, precognition, earthquakes… Ushijima’s team is a collection of powers more suited to gods than humans.

Power like that would trample on anything more delicate, struggling to bloom.

“If you wanted to win, you know which team you should’ve been on.” Ushijima states plainly. It’s a foregone conclusion, to him.

But is that what Oikawa wants? Victory? It’s such an oversimplification of what this all means to him. A way of reducing it down to something that Ushijima, or Kageyama, or anyone with tangible power can understand. Victory is something that makes sense in their world.

Utter powerlessness isn’t. They can’t have ever felt the crippling inadequacy that Oikawa’s been fighting off his entire life, ever since he first saw talent being born in others, always passing him over.

He doesn’t just want to win. He wants to be good enough. 

The laughter rises in him like steam in a pot, threatening to boil over. He sees no reason to fight against it, opens his mouth and barks out his derision with a tilt of his head and a wink of the eye.

“Your confidence is as laughable as ever,” he says, voice as sharp as a knife. “Do you really think your power makes you unbeatable? It doesn’t.”

Ushijima regards him out of dark eyes. “You’re shaking,” he observes.

And Oikawa isn’t blind to the tremor in his hands, the unsteadiness he feels where his feet are planted against the ground. He doesn’t know what would’ve brought on such unsteadiness, different from the crippling, oppressive feeling that always comes with losing to Ushijima. His skin burns hot, tingling with static.

“You should listen to what I’m about to tell you,” Oikawa says, and he feels far away from his body, his voice echoing against the far-spaced walls. “I’ll choose my pride over your power any day. You shouldn’t forget that, worthless as it is.”

When he’s stepped away from Ushijima a few moments later, he’s left weightless. Maybe it’s the contrast of having only a normal amount of gravity around him, now—it’s as if there’s nothing tethering him to Earth, at all.

If he floated away into space, he thinks idly, would he discover some power that just wasn’t suited to this planet? Can he breathe without atmosphere, or speed through the universe like a comet?

Then, there’s a weight against his shoulder, a strong hand drifting down to clutch at his wrist, tugging him forward.

“Where’ve you been?” Iwaizumi says, pulling Oikawa along. “Come on, the bus is about to leave, everyone wants to get home, already.”

There will be so many things to deal with, once they get back to school. His high school volleyball career is over. All the things he’s been avoiding—graduation and exams and choices for university—will suddenly come barreling towards him.

If only time would go as slowly as it had during the match. But increasingly, Oikawa realizes he’s run out of time. He never did come upon a power, and a promise he’d made to a younger version of himself has just slipped away, dissipating into the air like smoke.

*

His place on Kitagawa Daiichi’s team is secure for a few dazzling, intoxicating months. And then the new first years arrive—a promising crop that includes Kindaichi Yuutaro, Kunimi Akira, and one Kageyama Tobio.

“Have you looked into his eyes? They’re creepy,” Oikawa says one day as he and Iwaizumi are setting up the net, glancing over his shoulder to where the first years are huddled together.

Iwaizumi’s face stretches incredulously. “Are you still on about that? Leave him alone.”

“I would if he would stop being creepy,” Oikawa says definitively.

“He’s a kid,” Iwaizumi bites out. “And you’re being an asshole.”

Oikawa saunters away, but not before throwing one more searching glance over his shoulder at the first years. He likes most of them. The prospect of being a respected upperclassman is nice, actually. The second years are too close to truly revere him, and Oikawa’s come to find that he likes that type of attention.

And Kageyama doesn’t _not_ revere him. Out of all the first years, he follows Oikawa the closest, trailing after him with a volleyball pressed between his palms. His eyes will go wide and hopeful as he holds up the ball and asks Oikawa to teach him how to serve.

And there’s a small part of Oikawa that knows he’s being irrational—Kageyama hasn’t done anything wrong, exactly. At least, not intentionally.

But there is the very, very small matter of the fact that when Kageyama plays volleyball, the ball follows his intentions and thoughts exactly. He’s telekinetic, and could make that power work for him in an endless amount of ways.

And the only thing he seems to use it for is volleyball. His sense for the game is good, instinctively, and because the ball follows his every thought he doesn’t have to work up to a place where his abilities match those instincts.

When he uses his powers, his eyes flash a brilliant blue. It’s not creepy, in the way that Oikawa’s claiming, because he’s seen changing eyes and glowing hands and all manner of other eccentricities since he was a child. So it isn’t strange.

It’s just unfair.

And with Kageyama’s arrival, Oikawa feels the place he’s carved out for himself over the past few years begin to crumble beneath his feet.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been practicing for—if he had to guess, he’d say he’s hit a hundred serves, give or take a dozen. The balls echo empty against the other side of the court, the rest of the team long gone.

Heat itches under Oikawa’s skin, and no matter how much he practices it won’t subside. It feels better, when there’s people around. Like he can pour some of his excess, frantic energy into his interactions with them. He hates being by himself, always feels this buzz that keeps him awake and anxious.

He needs to find a better way of managing this, he knows. There won’t always be someone else around, especially if he loses his place here. If he’s not a part of the team, he’ll be alone, and—

“Oikawa-san?”

The voice grates against his last nerve. Oikawa turns to see Kageyama standing beside him, looking up at him with wide and hopeful eyes. And in that moment Oikawa’s vision blurs, and he sees not one Kageyama Tobio but five, each repeating the request. And then he sees Kageyama on the court, taking his place at its center, unpracticed by any measure when compared to Oikawa but _the ball follows his thoughts, and how could Oikawa ever match that_ —

His eyes are blazing blue, though Oikawa has no idea why Kageyama is calling on his powers, now. One of the balls at Oikawa’s feet rises into the air, gliding over the net in a perfect imitation of the arc Oikawa’s serves take. 

He sees red. Kageyama doesn’t usually have that much control, just enough power to nudge the ball one way or the other once it’s left his hands. But if he’s already advancing this quickly—the ball didn’t have much force or speed behind it, yet, but now it’s only a matter of time. He’ll only continue to get better, and Oikawa will—

“Get away from me,” he grits out, voice strangled. The ground beneath his feet feels barren, like anything that might have grown there has suddenly been burned away, leaving him on rocky and uneven surfaces. The goal he’s been chasing is a light in the distance, a star that’s gradually getting further and further away.

And Kageyama is still just standing there, frowning after the ball that’s rolled away on the other side of the court as though it has offended him, as though he didn’t specifically call on it to do what it just had.

“Oikawa-san—”

“ _Get away_.”

He’s suffocating, he’s sure. Kageyama is standing there and sucking the life out of him, and has the gall to look confused and innocent all the while. Hatred fills Oikawa’s throat, tasting like blood. He barely registers the motion when he lifts his arm, fingers curling into a fist, tendons straining with how hard he’s clenching each muscle.

He takes a swing, mind blaring with alarm bells when he realizes what he’s doing. His vision is still scarlet, unfocused and—

The blow never lands. Suddenly, there’s a too strong grip on his wrist, pulling him backwards so suddenly that Oikawa loses his footing and falls backwards, landing hard against the gym floor.

Oh. It’s Iwaizumi running past him, laying his hand—now gentle, no force behind it at all—on Kageyama’s shoulder, murmuring something to him. And Kageyama is nodding, glancing back at Oikawa only once before turning on his heel and scampering out of the gym and towards the lockers.

Iwaizumi stays faced away from him, but Oikawa can see the way his chest rises and falls, his breathing heavy.

Kageyama would be able to give Iwaizumi perfect tosses, Oikawa thinks bitterly. He wouldn’t have to work at it at all, he’d only have to think about where the ball needed to be and then it would be—

“Oi,” Iwaizumi says, still not facing Oikawa. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

He wasn’t thinking, Oikawa almost says. The feelings had overwhelmed him suddenly, and needed some outlet. If Kageyama wasn’t _always around_ , if he hadn’t been put into the match when Oikawa had been pulled out, if Iwaizumi wasn’t so terribly patient with him, if the coaches didn’t look at him like he was going to be the greatest player Kitagawa Daiichi had ever seen—

“Well?” Iwaizumi turns around, glaring down at Oikawa with something far beyond his usual, superficial grumpiness. There’s a fire in his eyes, disappointment lingering in the severe curve of his frown. He’s never directed such ire at Oikawa, before.

Oikawa feels himself trembling, the same energy that’s been burning beneath his skin suddenly boiling up again. He hasn’t gotten up from the ground, yet, so now he draws his legs towards his chest and presses his forehead against his knees.

He doesn’t recognize the noise that comes out of him. It might be laughter, or a whimper, or a breathless, strangled scream. In any case, Oikawa is shaking with it, tears dripping down his face as guilt and disappointment and despair all settle against his chest, heavier than they’ve ever been before. He can’t breathe, he feels so heavy.

“Hey.” Iwaizumi’s voice is softer now, but the anger hasn’t faded. Suddenly, he’s kneeling in front of Oikawa, grabbing both his hands and pulling at them, forcing Oikawa out of the tight ball he’s trying to curve himself into.

“Iwa—” His voice breaks, but Iwaizumi doesn’t pay him any attention. He gets one hand under Oikawa’s shoulder and hoists him to his feet, paying no attention to Oikawa’s startled squawk. 

“You’re an idiot,” he continues, ignoring Oikawa’s protests as he hoists him effortlessly over one shoulder, Oikawa’s legs dangling over Iwaizumi’s chest and his hands clenched in the back of Iwaizumi’s t-shirt for balance.

“What are you—Iwa-chan, put me down!”

Iwaizumi starts walking them towards the locker room, Oikawa’s weight not even a mild inconvenience to him. He keeps speaking as though Oikawa hasn’t spoken.

“You really think too much about stupid things, you know? You don’t have to keep proving yourself. You’re the center of our team. We all want you there.”

Oikawa stops beating his fists against Iwaizumi’s back for a moment, stunned by his words.

“Until someone better comes along,” Oikawa sneers, the reaction involuntary at this point.

Iwaizumi growls. “Shut the hell up, Oikawa. No one’s looking to replace you. You’re two years older than Kageyama. You’re going to be the one leading us at the next tournament, and then we’re going to high school and he won’t even be there. What are you so worried about?”

He’s carried them past the lockers, Oikawa realizes, and had grabbed Oikawa’s bag with his free hand. Does he plan on carrying Oikawa the entire way home? How embarrassing.

“Most people have developed powers before they get to high school,” Oikawa says softly, when they’re outside the school and the night air is brisk against his face.

“Yeah?” Iwaizumi says, voice flat. “And?”

“I can’t do anything yet,” Oikawa admits quietly. “Everyone develops so much in middle school, I thought as long as they came by the time I graduated I’d… I’d be on an even playing field with the rest of you, you know? I’d be worthy of standing on the court with you, and our team.”

Iwaizumi bites down on another irritated noise. “You know I’ve never wanted anyone else beside me, don’t you? How could I have possibly made that more obvious?”

And Oikawa thinks back to the first day of volleyball club, and Iwaizumi refusing to spike anyone else’s toss. The way they’d always worked so well together, that when Iwaizumi hit one of Oikawa’s tosses he always seemed stronger in those moments. And Oikawa, foolishly, had felt that he had something to do with that strength, like he had any claim to Iwaizumi’s abilities.

There’s a wetness against his cheeks, tears falling unbidden as Iwaizumi keeps one arm wrapped around Oikawa’s legs, holding him steady as Iwaizumi walks them down the sidewalk. Oikawa is left looking up at the sky, the stars blazing into existence one by one, even behind the cloudy sky. They’re laid out artfully, one shining light for each empty space. Oikawa tilts his head, watching the darkening sky and pausing over a gap where no star has appeared.

“But you could be so much better than me,” Oikawa says at length, when he’s sure he can force the words out. “A setter with _any_ power would make you stronger, and—”

Iwaizumi huffs impatiently, pausing in his steps. “I think I’m strong enough, don’t you? And it’s not just you and me. You act like it’s only you on one side of the court and everyone else on the other. You think we don’t see how hard you work to support us? And you think we don’t want to give you the same, in return?”

Oikawa hiccups, fingers digging into Iwaizumi’s shoulder. He tells himself it’s for balance, and not because the solidity of Iwaizumi’s body is comforting, a grounding weight rather than an oppressive one.

“Any team is more than the sum of its parts,” Iwaizumi says, when Oikawa stays silent for a long moment. “And you add something. Who cares if you can’t put a label on it and register it as a power?”

Oikawa’s stomach twists painfully, his vision still focused on a blank stretch of sky. No star blinks into existence there.

“I can’t add anything that someone else can’t,” Oikawa says bitterly, the dark stretch of sky like a reminder. “And if I can, I don’t see it.”

“Because you’re focused on the wrong thing,” Iwaizumi says. He starts walking again, and Oikawa sees the streets go by in reverse as he hangs off of Iwaizumi’s shoulder like a rucksack. “I’m telling you that _I_ see it,” he continues, definitively. “So trust me, even if you don’t trust yourself.”

He wishes he could stop crying. He wishes he could be as sure, as steady, as strong as Iwaizumi always manages to be. Maybe it’s easier, when you’ve had the confidence of a defined power for years and years. It’s a bitter thought, and Oikawa’s ashamed as soon as he’s had it. He swallows, reaching up to rub at the tear tracks on his cheeks.

“I do trust you,” he says quietly. “I believe in you even when I don’t believe in myself.”

Iwaizumi makes a choked noise, like a cough, and Oikawa tilts dangerously until Iwaizumi readjusts his grip.

“Sorry,” he mutters. And then, “Then I’ll do the same, for you.”

(He’s crying again, a few weeks later, when he stands for a ceremony and is awarded second place. Ushijima Wakatoshi stands placidly amongst his teammates, the first place medals like a foregone conclusion even before they hang around their necks. But Oikawa clutches the award for Best Setter against his chest, a tangible reminder of what he’s accomplished despite starting so far behind the others.

“We’ll beat Shiratorizawa next time,” he says, voice watery around his tears.

Iwaizumi stands beside him, crying just like Oikawa. “Powers or not,” he adds, and Oikawa nods fervently in response.

It’s a promise.)

*

When Oikawa stands at the center of the court, he sees a garden blooming around him. Vines and roses, fruit trees and grasses. And at the forefront, a steady, strong oak tree rises from the earth, the kind with branches thick enough to climb and a canopy of leaves. It’s the kind of tree that one could sit in and watch the stars from.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes up with the crust of tears over his eyes, which is an irritating reminder of the day before. Rubbing at his face with the back of his hand, Iwaizumi is forced to remember that he probably wasn’t the only person who spent most of yesterday crying. He’s not ashamed of that, exactly. But there’s no denying that he wishes the outcome had been different.

By the time he’s dressed for school and out the door, he’s able to put it from his mind. There’s a piece of toast hanging out of his mouth when he knocks on Oikawa’s front door. Normally, his best friend is waiting for him at the corner, hurrying Iwaizumi along with an impatient wave of his hand. Today, the sidewalk is conspicuously empty.

Oikawa’s mother answers the door, her thick auburn hair piled high on top of her head and her cell phone balanced between her shoulder and ear.

“Oh, Hajime-kun,” she says, glancing at him with wide eyes. Iwaizumi knows that Oikawa looks like her and not the other way around, but it’s hard convincing himself of that. “Didn’t Tooru tell you? He left early this morning.”

An alarm goes off in the back of Iwaizumi’s mind, remembering dozens of texts from Oikawa over the past three years, telling him exactly when and why Oikawa would leave without him. He’d gotten no such text this morning.

“He must’ve forgotten to tell me,” Iwaizumi says, smiling ruefully at Oikawa’s mother. “I should get going, then, if he’s got a head start.”

Oikawa’s mother laughs, a sound that doesn’t have the persuasive effects of her speaking voice but is more beautiful for that fact. She reaches out to ruffle Iwaizumi’s hair.

“You boys take care of yourselves today, alright? I know yesterday was hard on all of you.”

“We’ll be okay,” Iwaizumi assures her. “And I’ll look out for Oikawa.”

He hadn’t thought about making this trek alone, today. Aoba Johsai isn’t a far walk from the neighborhood that Oikawa and Iwaizumi have lived in all of their lives, but it’s a time that’s usually punctuated by Oikawa’s incessant chatter. Iwaizumi had braced himself for a twenty-minute tirade on Kageyama Tobio’s many faults, or a list of Oikawa’s own mistakes from yesterday’s game, if he was still in a particularly self-deprecating mood.

Iwaizumi pauses at that thought. Oikawa hadn’t really been self-deprecating yesterday, had he? His speech had been focused on the team, on the strength he’d gotten from them and his gratitude for the last three years. On the bus ride home, everyone had been worn out and tired. Oikawa had spent the trip gazing out the window, not launching into a stream of complaints or strategies like he usually did after a loss.

Well, Iwaizumi rationalizes, every other time they’ve lost there’s been the promise of another chance, an opportunity to redeem themselves. Yesterday really had been their last shot at victory.

Damn it. Iwaizumi grinds his teeth, picking up speed. He’d been so caught up in himself yesterday, he hadn’t noticed. But Oikawa’s silence, his lack of petty reaction, is more telling than anything.

There’s no fucking way he’d actually acquired such maturity. So if he didn’t have a mean word to spare, and couldn’t wait for Iwaizumi to walk with him and unload his negative feelings from the day before, then something is _wrong_.

There’s no morning volleyball practice, today. The third years have been planning to stick around for a few more days before Oikawa passes the baton to Yahaba; everyone on the team needs more than one day to process their loss, and the new makeup of their team. But Coach Irithata had been adamant that everyone take today off.

But he can’t imagine where else Oikawa might be, right now, so when he reaches the school he makes a sharp turn towards the gym. He imagines that when he slides open the door he’ll see Yahaba, Watari, and Kindaichi on the court, maybe with Kyoutani hanging around the edges and Kunimi leaning against the back wall, hoping that no one will rope him into drills. And Oikawa will be standing at the coach’s bench, letting Yahaba get his bearings, observing with that keen glint in his eyes even though he’ll be disappointed, unsure of how to give up his position—

When he does slide open the door, Iwaizumi sees none of that.

Though, to be fair, Iwaizumi doesn’t see much of anything for a moment. Because when he yanks at the door’s handle, it crushes in his grip, crumpling like paper rather than metal. Iwaizumi gapes at himself—how long has it been since he’s exerted that much strength on accident?

He steps into the gym, intending to find one of the coaches to apologize, but he never gets that far. Because as soon as he takes a few steps, he trips over his feet and lands flat against the cold gym floor, hands reaching out to take the brunt of it. He coughs, shifting to one side and glancing back to see what had tripped him.

There are vines, as thick as one of Iwaizumi’s arms, growing up between the paneling. They shade from brown to green and back again, snaking out across the floor and creating an uneven surface.

Seeing plants on the gym floor isn’t exactly rare. The week Kyoutani had come back, there’d been cacti lining the court every day until Oikawa had taken Yahaba aside and asked him, politely, to please get a hold of himself because his hostility was going to result in a lot of flat volleyballs and perhaps an injury, and wouldn’t that be tragic?

But he’s never seen any plants as large, as destructive, as the vines now. They look like they’ve been growing for years, thick and entrenched and unmovable.

What the hell is Yahaba thinking?

“Oh, Iwaizumi,” a voice calls from above him. “Finally.”

Iwaizumi glances up at the sound of Matsukawa’s voice—or at least, he tries to. The moment he tries to focus on Matsukawa’s face above him, his head splits with pain and Iwaizumi is forced to look in the opposite direction in order to ease the sensation. Three years have taught him what Matsukawa’s power feels like—a gentle nudge that pushes his awareness one way or the other when Matsukawa wants to be noticed, or not. This, however, had felt as though someone had grabbed his head and forcibly turned it in another direction.

“What the hell,” he growls, clutching at his head. He doesn’t bother trying to focus on Matsukawa, again, just speaks to the room at large. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry.” Matsukawa offers Iwaizumi a hand, hoisting him to his feet. The pressure in his skull alleviates for a moment, and Iwaizumi can look and take in Matsukawa’s sleepy eyes, his curling hair pushed back from his forehead.

“What’s going on?” Iwaizumi demands, arms crossing reflexively over his chest. “Was Yahaba possessed by a demon, or something?”

Matsukawa swallows, and Iwaizumi notices the severe furrow between his brows. He’s concentrating, Iwaizumi realizes, holding his power in check. But that can’t be right, because Matsukawa has always had masterful control over himself.

“Well, that’s the thing,” Matsukawa says, lips pursing between words as he tries to keep his concentration, “None of us are doing this on purpose.”

“None of us?” Iwaizumi echoes. 

Matsukawa shrugs helplessly. “Yahaba’s really the least of it.”

That can’t be right. Powers are an expression of an individual’s will, a reflection of their personality. They’re limited by that person’s capabilities and desires. So why would Matsukawa and Yahaba’s powers be beyond their control, now?

“You’re not that cut up about yesterday, are you?” Iwaizumi asks, looking at Matsukawa skeptically. It’s sometimes hard to tell what he’s thinking, because his face settles into neutral ease almost by default. But they’ve been friends for so long, and though Iwaizumi knows Matsukawa had felt the same despair that he had, yesterday, this all seems like a bit much.

Matsukawa purses his lips. “I’m not _not_ cut up about it,” he says, a bit defensively. “But I told you—it’s not on purpose.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Iwaizumi grits out. “It’s your power. How can it not be on purpose?”

Matsukawa shrugs, and though he doesn’t look overtly worried Iwaizumi can sense the tension in his posture, the furrow between his brows deepening.

Iwaizumi sucks in a deep breath. “Alright,” he says finally, adopting what Oikawa laughingly refers to as his vice-captain’s voice. “Where’s everyone else? Let’s get to the bottom of this.”

*

Iwaizumi has always hated the word _unpowered_. It’s so reductive, especially when applied to Oikawa Tooru. He may not have a definable power, but anyone who thinks Oikawa is lacking in ability must be willfully blind.

“Alright,” Oikawa says, stretching out his fingers and lifting his arms over his head. “Kunimi-chan, are you ready?”

The team is standing in a half-circle around the coaches’ bench, jerseys stiff with sweat and faces red with exhilaration. Iwaizumi’s still not sure how they ended up locked in a death match with Karasuno—even after playing them once at practice, he couldn’t have predicted this. Part of him had assumed that with Oikawa on their side from the start, they’d bulldoze Karasuno and be done with it.

(This absolute faith in Oikawa is not something he usually voices aloud, and never directly to Oikawa himself. But sometimes Iwaizumi catches himself wondering whether all of his own confidence comes from having Oikawa beside him.)

Kunimi nods in response, reaching up to flick his bangs out of his eyes. And even three months ago, Iwaizumi might have questioned Oikawa’s choice to leave these last critical points to the first year.

Not that he doesn’t believe in his underclassman. But there’s no denying that sometimes Kunimi lacks the outward conviction so evident in most truly passionate athletes.

“Don’t look so worried, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa laughs as he passes by, reaching out to tap Iwaizumi’s shoulder in a quick three-beat rhythm. “I know exactly whose strength we need, right now.”

Kunimi’s good at avoiding things he doesn’t want to deal with. And sometimes, that’s useful. When he’s on the front line, he can let the ball phase right through him so that Watari or Hanamaki can pick it up from the back line at a cleaner angle than Kunimi would have been able to manage on his own.

The problem is, he isn’t always strategic about his phasing.

It had been a few months ago at practice that Oikawa called him out on it.

“You could’ve gotten that one,” he’d said, mildly, but there was something dark, a glow like smoldering embers, lingering in his eyes.

Kunimi had smiled thinly. “Well, Oikawa-san, I—”

Oikawa huffs. “At least look like you’re fully going for it,” he says, pushing Kunimi back towards the net. “Then, when you don’t, it’ll throw the other team off entirely.”

Kunimi blinked up at Oikawa, as though trying to figure out his angle.

“You can be lazy all you want,” Oikawa continued loftily. “And I’m going to use that laziness. But in the eleventh hour, when everyone else is tired out and you’ve got all your strength left in reserve, that’s when we’ll need you.”

As Kunimi had headed back to his position, Oikawa called after him.

“Oh, and Kunimi-chan? If the coaches and I can tell you’re not trying, that means the others teams will be able to tell, too! So make sure you _seem_ like you’re giving it your all, okay?”

It’s a strategy Iwaizumi never would have thought Kunimi capable of, back in middle school. But even back then, Oikawa had been watching him, assessing. And what he’d finally come up with is a strategy that doesn’t demand that Kunimi fundamentally change who he is. It’s one that takes his most prominent traits and uses them, amplifying them to be their best.

The first time Kunimi had run up on the ball, intending to phase through it and act as a decoy, it had smacked him straight in the face. He fell back against the court, face scrunched and red as Kindaichi, behind him, had let out a strangled cry and moved towards him on instinct.

But Oikawa had gotten there first, kneeling down to offer Kunimi a hand.

“What happened?” he asked, not unkindly.

Kunimi still managed to scowl around his bruised nose. “I have to be relaxed,” he said finally, words slightly muffled by the way he clutched at his face. “Otherwise I won’t phase. And if I’m acting like I’m about to hit a spike I won’t—”

Ah. Kunimi’s power is a reflexive one, a defensive one. Iwaizumi has seen him walk through walls because he can’t be bothered to move a meter over and open the door; in the club room, he simply reaches through the wall of his locker to grab his practice jersey. He doesn’t move out of people’s way in the halls, simply walks through them, most of the time either oblivious to or uncaring of the fact that he’s leaving Kindaichi scrambling behind him.

But when they’re running laps, and he’s actively putting forth effort into his runs, Kunimi will often bump into the person in front of him, his body too primed with adrenaline to let him through them.

“You can do it,” Oikawa said to him, tilting his head to one side to get a better look at Kunimi’s nose, making sure it wasn’t broken. “I know you can.”

Kunimi looked at him flatly. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Call it a good feeling, Kunimi-chan! Don’t you believe in your captain? I believe in you, you know.”

Kunimi had taken more than one ball to the face, over the next few weeks. But in the first few sets of their match against Karasuno, he run up on spike after spike, letting the ball phase straight through him so that someone else could actually hit it.

And Iwaizumi wouldn’t pretend it wasn’t incredibly satisfying, coming up behind Kunimi and slamming the ball over the net with a considerable amount of strength, watching the Karasuno players’ eyes go wide and their features contort in frustration as they realized they’d been played.

Now, Kunimi runs towards the net, knees bent as he leaps forward. And Iwaizumi sees Karasuno’s libero and captain glancing his way, expecting him to run in behind Kunimi to spike the ball. They shuffle back in anticipation of his force.

He can’t help the cocky grin that comes to his lips. Because over the past few months, Oikawa’s done more for Kunimi than simply believe in him. He’s fostered that same belief in all of Seijoh’s players.

So when Kunimi lightly taps the ball in a feint, and it goes over the net and hits the floor of the court with an almost inaudible noise, the roar that goes up from the Seijoh players is deafening. They all scrambled forward, Oikawa and Iwaizumi pulling Kunimi between them and ruffling his hair, Hanakamki and Matsukawa close behind, and the others closing the ranks of their tight circle.

And Kunimi is grinning from ear to ear, eyes scrunched with happiness.

“I’ve never felt that strong, before,” he admits quietly, from within the circle of his teammates’ arms.

“You did that,” Iwaizumi says later, when they’re changing jerseys for their next match, Karasuno heading off the court in defeat.

Oikawa pokes his head through his aquamarine jersey. “Hm?”

“Kunimi,” Iwaizumi says. “Have you ever seen him that motivated?” Sure, Kunimi has always been talented. But that means nothing, if he’s not pushed to use that talent.

Oikawa tilts his head back and laughs. “I just told him how to use what he already has,” he says dismissively. “The power is his, you know?”

Iwaizumi frowns at him. He knows Oikawa fixates on others’ powers because he doesn’t have one of his own. It’s his own method of overcompensation, trying to use everyone else’s skills to their best advantage, making up for their weaknesses and what he perceives as his own.

“Yeah, but,” Iwaizumi says, thinking as he speaks, each word spaced out, “He couldn’t do that, before. Without you.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes, reaching over to tug Iwaizumi’s jersey straight. “You say the silliest things sometimes, Iwa-chan. Now, chin up! We’ve still got another match to win, today!”

*

As it turns out, none of their starting lineup is good at taking breaks. Aoba Johsai’s team boasts three dozen volleyball players, but the bulk of them had taken Irihata at his word and hadn’t arrvied for morning practice. But the core—Matsukawa and Hanamaki, Kindaichi and Kunimi, Watari and Yahaba—they’d all shown up, unable to break habit or move on just yet. Even Kyoutani had arrived before Iwaizumi, though he scowls now and mutters that he hadn’t heard Irihata say practice was cancelled. And now he’s affected, just like the rest of them.

The question now is, affected by _what_ , exactly.

Yahaba’s sitting on one end of the coach’s bench, arms crossed over his chest and lips curved into a pout. There are more vines growing up from the floor, thinner than the ones by the gym floor and curling around his ankles in intricate knots.

“…and you’re not trying to do that, at all?” Iwaizumi asks, a bit helplessly.

“Iwaizumi-san,” Yahaba says flatly, “Why would I want to destroy our gym?”

It is a bit ironic, Iwaizumi thinks, that Yahaba is the only one of them without a power than can be weaponized for volleyball, and yet his is doing the most damage at the moment. The vines curl under the bench and across it, tangling with the other player’s ankles as they sit in a line. When they reach Kyoutani, he jumps up and glares across the line of players at Yahaba.

“Cut that out,” he growls.

“I literally just said I couldn’t,” Yahaba says, rolling his eyes.

“ _Try harder_ ,” Kyoutani says from between clenched teeth. His hands ball into fists, and Iwaizumi recognizes the pinkish glow that comes with Kyoutani’s own, explosive powers.

“Hey,” he says, voice cutting through the tension building between his two underclassmen, “Let’s try and not make this worse, alright?”

Kyoutani mutters under his breath, but edges a bit to the side so that when he swings his arm towards the gym floor, he’s angled away from the rest of them. His fist hits the floorboards with a thud, kinetic energy running down with the force of his punch and creating a crater of impact.

Iwaizumi would scold him, but he’s likely got about as much control over himself as Yahaba, right now. Though their frustration with each other probably isn’t helping.

“And here I thought you two were starting to get along,” Iwaizumi mutters.

“We are!” Yahaba insists, at the same time that Kyoutani mumbles, “We’re _not_.”

They both turn to shoot daggers at one another.

“Ugh,” Hanamaki says from between them, massaging his temples. “Can we at least try to stop changing the topography? Because that would be fantastic.”

Matsukawa is sitting next to him, one arm casually thrown over Hanamaki’s shoulders. His brows knit together as he glances at Hanamaki with concern.

“I’m fine,” Hanamaki tells him, lips pulled thin in what might be an attempt at a reassuring smile. “It’s just—everything time something changes—”

Iwaizumi gnaws on the inside of his cheek. Hanamaki has ecological awareness and empathy—a sense of exactly how the space around him is laid out and changing. It makes him a godsend on the court, able to track the movements of the opposing team and use the most strategic attack—feints when the blockers have pulled back, spikes when they edge forward. But usually, he can focus it, and even ignore his power entirely when he doesn’t want to be as aware of his surroundings.

But now he can’t turn it off, and the constant awareness must be like torture.

“And we’re sure this is only happening in the gym, right?” Iwaizumi asks, running one hand down his face.

Yahaba shrugs. “I told some of the others to text me if things were as bad outside, but it doesn’t look like it.”

“And Coach Irihata isn’t here?”

“He told us to rest today, remember?” Yahaba spreads his hands. “It was our choice to disobey him, you know?”

Iwaizumi grits his teeth. “I know.” And that had been their own stubbornness. The third years weren’t ready to let go, to admit that yesterday had been their final time together as a team.

Kindaichi and Kunimi are sitting between Hanamaki and Yahaba on the bench—or, Kindaichi is, at least. Kunimi is standing, because the last time he tried to sit he phased straight through the bench and Kindaichi had to grab his wrist to pull him up and keep him from phasing straight through the floor.

Watari is sitting on the other side of Matsukawa, uncomfortably close to his upperclassman. But every time he tries to pull away his powers kick in and he’s drawn back to Matsukawa’s side. When he tries to edge to the other side, Kyoutani’s deadly glare keeps him from getting too close.

“Could it be someone’s power?” Kunimi asks, voice still tinged with boredom despite everything else.

Iwaizumi frowns at that. Scientists have been working on artificial amplifiers for powers for decades, now, but no one’s ever been successful at that sort of thing. The source and mechanics of their powers are too ill-understood. Some people do have powers that act on others’, though. Iwaizumi’s heard of a girl who can nullify the effects of powers when they’re directed towards her, for instance. But he still doesn’t know what, or who, could’ve caused this.

“Iwaizumi-san?” Kindaichi looks nervous, and Iwaizumi doesn’t blame him. His powers don’t seem to be active, but they are largely tied to his confidence in himself. If he thinks something terrible is about to happen, he could end up being the cause.

So Iwaizumi tries for his most reassuring tone. “What is it?”

“Where’s Oikawa-san?”

They all glance around at each other, but no one has an answer to that question. And it’s ridiculous, really, because for three years none of them have ever beat Oikawa to the gym, save for those times when their captain was out with an injury. And Oikawa would never leave the gym in such chaos, not when his team needed him.

“You guys just, stay here,” Iwaizumi grits out. “Try not to let Kunimi fall to the center of the earth or something, okay?”

“That wouldn’t happen,” Kunimi starts to say.

“I’ll keep hold of him!” Watari suggests helpfully, extracting himself from Matsukawa’s side with difficulty and standing up next to Kunimi. Immediately, they’re pulled together like magnets, Kunimi grimacing at the sudden contact.

“I’m going to go find him,” Iwaizumi says, turning away from the team, “Just—hold on, okay?”

If anything, Oikawa would probably be the best person to deal with a situation like this. He doesn’t have a power, so he wouldn’t be affected the same way the rest of them are. Iwaizumi clenches his fists, remembering the crushed door handle. He doesn’t feel any different, but. There are still times when he doesn’t know his own strength.

His steps feel heavy as he leaves the gym, pausing for a moment before he decides where to look first. It’s still early enough that the classrooms won’t be open, and anyway Oikawa never spends more time in his classroom than he needs to. He enjoys the attention his local celebrity brings him, sure, but Iwaizumi suspects Oikawa also finds it exhausting.

(He knows _he_ finds it exhausting. He’s heard enough of Oikawa’s admirers in the halls, whispering about how romantic it would be to be with someone unpowered, to be so opposite and love someone so flawed. It’s a line of thinking that Iwaizumi will never understand, and doesn’t particularly want to.

But it makes something heavy and ugly settle in his gut, and he tries not to focus on that feeling for too long at any one time.)

So he rules out the classrooms. The club room is close enough, up a flight of stairs and on the far side of the building. Campus is just beginning to come to life with club activities and early arrivals, but Iwaizumi ignores them as he takes the stairs two at a time.

He tries the door handle to the club room, but it jams, locked. He scowls down at it. There’s only one person, other than the coaches, who has a key to this room. He conveniently hadn’t handed it over to Yahaba, yesterday.

“Oikawa?” Iwaizumi calls out, voice rough with annoyance and not concern. “Are you in there?”

He waits for a minute, counting down slowly in his head. But there’s no response.

He pounds twice against the door, stepped back when the impact leaves small craters against it. He hadn’t been calling on his strength at all, and yet—

Shit. Now he’ll have to pay for this, probably.

“Are you in there?” he calls again. “Answer me, already!”

He hears something behind the door, a rustling. Then, softly—

“I’m here, stop yelling. It’s so early, Iwa-chan—”

“What the hell!” Iwaizumi pounds on the door again, forgetting himself and leaving a larger dent. “What are you doing? Have you _seen_ the gym? There’s something weird going on, and—”

“You _really_ should stop yelling,” Oikawa says, and Iwaizumi pauses only because Oikawa’s voice is strained, high-pitched. “Just—enough with the noise, please.”

“What’s wrong?” Iwaizumi asks immediately.

“Nothing,” Oikawa says, too quickly. “I’m fine, why don’t you go back to the gym? I’m sure Yahaba wants you there to see his first practice—”

“Aren’t you listening to me?” Iwaizumi demands. “There is no practice, everyone’s powers have gone out of control, and we need your help.”

“I’m fine,” Oikawa repeats, even though Iwaizumi hadn’t asked again. “Can you please just go, Iwa-chan? I’ll meet you there.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t buy it for an instant. He plants his feet.

“I’m not leaving until you let me in.”

*

Datekou is never a team to be taken lightly, though it’s been awhile since Seijoh lost to them. They’ve lost their third years, which should work in Seijoh’s favor, and yet getting through this match is still proving to be a pain in the ass.

But of course, with an Iron Wall reinforced by all sorts of defensive powers, it would have to be a challenge.

One of Iwaizumi’s spikes is blocked by their second-year captain, who can create copies of himself for a minute or so at a time. The Iron Wall is challenging enough when it consists of just three blockers, but when Futakuchi expands that to five it feels nearly impossible to get a spike through them.

Iwaizumi counts himself lucky that Futakuchi doesn’t go to Seijoh. He’s seen the captain create a copy of himself to match every member of his team, pestering them all individually after matches with that smug expression of his. It’s a wonder how his upperclassmen ever dealt with him.

When he blocks Iwaizumi’s spike, the grin is rendered in triplicate, and Iwaizumi bites back a curse as his feet hit the gym floor again, ball landing somewhere behind him. Futakuchi snaps back to being just one of himself a moment later, but the smirk remains.

It’s a few points later that Iwaizumi notices Oikawa narrowing his eyes at the net, glancing between the blockers and Iwaizumi skeptically. Iwaizumi can see his hesitation like a palpable cloud hanging over Oikawa’s head.

He tosses the ball and Iwaizumi runs to meet it. But the angle is off, and Oikawa’s hesitation sits uneasy between them, and when Iwaizumi goes in for the spike everything feels _wrong_.

It’s not his form, or the will behind his spike. He can feel the power under his skin as his palm hits the ball, but the force behind his spike is lacking. It bounces ineffectually off of Aone Takanobu’s hands, which are now covered in steel.

The ball crashes down behind him and Iwaizumi digs his teeth into the inside of his cheek, because this isn’t how things are supposed to go. He hasn’t lost this many points since the last time Seijoh faced Shiratorizawa, months ago.

He hears the scrape of metal again as Aone’s steel armor retreats, but Iwaizumi ignores the sound as he rounds on Oikawa, who’s still looking out over the court with narrowed eyes.

“Oi,” Iwaizumi calls out, irritation coloring his tone. “What was that?”

Oikawa straightens up immediately, shoulders rising to meet his ears. “Hm?” he asks, voice and posture not at all achieving the nonchalance he’s aiming for.

“That toss,” Iwaizumi elaborates flatly. “It was off.”

Oikawa pouts at him, brows narrowing over his eyes like Iwaizumi has just offended his honor. “That’s not very nice, you know—”

Iwaizumi scoffs, cutting him off. “Just do it like we usually do,” he says firmly. He gestures at the space between them. “I’m strong enough to take on the challenge, but only when I can count on you. Don’t switch it up on me, again.”

Oikawa stands at attention, offering Iwaizumi a cheeky salute.

“I think I like it when you’re so decisive, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa teases. “It almost makes it sound like you know what you’re doing.”

Iwaizumi tells himself that the color in his cheeks is the exhilaration from the game. “Shut up, Oikawa.”

Throughout the next rally, Iwaizumi can feel Oikawa’s gaze burning a brand onto his back. The energy between them is like a livewire, active and sparking. And when Oikawa tosses the ball towards the net, Iwaizumi runs up to meet it and _feels_ the difference, as though every cell in his body has been supercharged.

He grins as he hits the ball through Datekou’s block. Nothing can stop the strength of his spike—not Aone’s armor, not three different Futakuchis, and not their first year setter’s constructions of light. The wall he puts up is lacking, and the ball shatters it on its way to the other side of the court.

He feels victory singing in his blood even before the rest of the team descends upon him.

“Iwaizumi!”

“Iwaizumi-san!”

They run towards him and he accepts their praise with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. Oikawa shoots him a pleased, approving grin, and Iwaizumi nods in response. The team is still around him, smiling and shouting, and Iwaizumi is happy to share the victory with him.

But he can’t help but think that the point wasn’t his alone. His philosophy has always been that volleyball is a team sport, and no victory is won without each of the six players on the court contributing. But he’s had a sense, more and more, that Oikawa contributes to their victories more than as just their setter or their captain.

Their wins are tied to his will, Iwaizumi’s sure. And whether the rest of them are just pushed further because Oikawa forces it out of them, or having such a hardworking captain motivates them, or because they’re all aware that he’s one of the best players in the prefecture despite not having a power—

Iwaizumi can’t quite put his finger on it. But as they step off the court to prepare for their next match, he slaps his hand against Oikawa’s shoulder.

“You did good,” he says simply. “I told you, didn’t I?”

Oikawa offers him a soft smile, uncolored by teasing or determination or anything else.

“Yeah, you did. I should listen to you more often—is that what you want me to say?”

And ah, he’s back. Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, walking past him. “Come on,” he grumbles. “We’ve got another match to win.”

*

The door to the club room remains locked for long moments. Iwaizumi heaves a heavy sigh and lowers himself to the ground, sitting with his back against the wall.

“Are you seriously not going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asks, after another long moment. “We’ve been over this. I’m going to find out whatever it is, eventually, so can we just skip to that part?”

Oikawa doesn’t respond, or if he does Iwaizumi doesn’t hear him. He sighs heavily.

“I think I know why you’re upset,” he starts to say.

Even as he says the words, he’s not sure he does understand. Yesterday had been so charged with emotions that he wasn’t paying as much attention to Oikawa as he usually does. If anything, their normal dynamic had been reversed—he was relying on Oikawa emotionally, grateful that he was keeping himself composed so that Iwaizumi would have the room he needed to fall apart.

He regrets that, now. He’s painfully aware of how much responsibility that Oikawa takes on himself. He blames himself for _everything_ , including things that have nothing at all to do with him. Even the petty grudges he directs at Ushijima and Kageyama are deflections, another facet of the duty Oikawa shoulders.

There was a western myth they’d learned as children, about a man who held the world up upon his shoulders. Iwaizumi can’t quite remember the details anymore, but he knows that burden had been placed as a punishment. He wonders idly what someone could possibly do that would warrant the weight of the world being thrust upon them so fully, eternally.

Sometimes, Iwaizumi will glance over at Oikawa in the locker room. He doesn’t do so intentionally, but he’ll catch flashes of the pale skin of Oikawa’s back as he pulls off his jersey, muscles moving deftly as he tucks the jersey away and reaches for a clean t-shirt.

Oikawa’s body belies his strength. His muscles are all efficient and subtle, graceful lines across his back and arms that only reveal tension and power in the middle of a match, when they pull taught to accomplish Oikawa’s immensely powerful serves or strain in a dive for a difficult receive.

But even despite that, Iwaizumi can imagine those muscles curving, lifting, straining under the weight of the earth itself as Oikawa holds the entirety of it on his back, his gaze never leaving the sky, chin always pointed upwards.

Iwaizumi had promised himself, long ago, that he’d never let Oikawa carry that burden alone. And yesterday, instead of lessening that weight, he’d added to it.

Another sigh escapes him. “We all felt it, yesterday,” he says quietly. The door to the club room isn’t so thick that Oikawa won’t be able to hear him. “There were so many moments when I was sure we’d turned the tide, that victory was going to be ours. And then, when we lost, all of that energy had nowhere to go. It was trapped, and almost painful.”

Oikawa is still silent.

“But we all felt it equally. I thought it was more my fault. I’m the ace, aren’t I? It’s my job to score the point that assures our team victory, and I failed to do that. I’m sorry.” He says the words, but he knows Oikawa doesn’t blame him. Oikawa has never blamed him for his shortcomings, has only tried to help him improve in whatever way he can.

“And maybe that’s why I think I understand what you’re feeling, now. I’ve been thinking a lot about all of the past three years, and this year, especially. How you helped Kunimi to become such a good player—he’s probably going to be the ace of the team, when he’s a third year. And our victory against Datekou, yesterday—I couldn’t have made that last point without you.”

He’s tried to reassure Oikawa in less-than-subtle ways for his entire life. He’s never really given explicit voice to the many things he admires about his friend, but he’d thought that his feelings were obvious.

“And you’re forgetting each of those things now, aren’t you? That’s why you’re upset. Because you think you failed, when we lost yesterday.”

Oikawa had slapped him hard across the back, unwilling to let Iwaizumi stew in self-pity after their loss had settled across them, an oppressive weight. And now he’s going to repay the favor.

“You didn’t fail, Oikawa. We never would’ve made it that far without you.”

But still, Oikawa doesn’t answer.

*

Iwaizumi doesn’t really understand why Oikawa wants Kyoutani back on the team. He’s a good player, sure, and Iwaizumi suspects he’s a good kid under all of his bluster. But that doesn’t explain why Oikawa, who values precision and predictability from his players, is so intent to have Kyoutani in their lineup.

“Maybe I like the challenge,” Oikawa says, laying upside down on Iwaizumi’s bed as Iwaizumi sits at his desk, pretending to go through his homework.

Iwaizumi scoffs at him. “That’s pretty fucked up, you know. He’s a person.”

“A person with all that power,” Oikawa says, almost dreamily. “Sure, Kyouken-chan doesn’t use it very well, right now, but there’s _potential_.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. He hates that word, because he knows Oikawa always associates it with their Kitagawa Daiichi days, when he’d been flatly told that he had no potential at all.

“Be careful,” he tells Oikawa gruffly. “You know he creates literal explosions, right? And he doesn’t seem to like you very much.”

Oikawa gasps, mouth and eyes wide with mock offense. “ _Everyone_ likes me, Iwa-chan. Kyouken-chan just doesn’t want to admit it, yet.”

Whether Kyoutani wants to admit it or not, his defiant isolation leads to more than one crack in the gym floor over the next few weeks. Even Hanamaki and Matsukawa are skeptical about him, preferring to practice with Kindaichi and Kunimi while Oikawa runs drill after drill with Kyoutani.

(On the first day Kyoutani had come back to practice, defiantly glaring at anyone who dared to look his way, his ire had found a convenient target in Oikawa.

“You’re still here?” he asked, nose crinkling as he assessed the third years left in the gym. Iwaizumi felt his fingers curling, fists forming instinctively at the dismissal in Kyoutani’s tone. And then he’d turned to address Oikawa directly. “You can’t even _do_ anything.”

Iwaizumi’s vision flashed red. But, as ever, Oikawa didn’t need defending.

He threw his head back and laughed darkly, perfectly-arranged hair shifting only slightly with the movement.

“It’s true,” he’d said, with no bitterness at all. “And yet, if you’re going to play on my team, I can assure you there’ll be a moment that you’ll realize you should’ve been playing nice with me from the start, Kyouken-chan. And then you’ll be oh so glad you came back before I was gone.”

“Not likely.” Kyoutani grimaced, arms raised like he was bracing himself for an attack.

But Oikawa had just laughed again, that dark glint back in his eye.)

“Your fuse is much too short,” Oikawa says, weeks later. “You control atoms, is that it? Increasing their movement against one another and triggering an explosion. But it all happens too fast, and you’re just as likely to blow up our side of the court as our opponent’s. And that’s no good.”

“I don’t need you telling me that,” Kyoutani growls, arms crossed over his chest. From across the court, Yahaba watches the exchange before rolling his eyes.

“Mm.” Oikawa’s tone is entirely agreeable. “At least try and work with me, would you? Then you might actually become a worthwhile player.”

Kyoutani opens his mouth to retort, but Iwaizumi steps forward, cutting him off.

“You’re dangerous, right now,” he says matter-of-factly. “Unless you can control your power, you’re no good to anyone.”

Kyoutani purses his lips, nodding despite the argument Iwaizumi is sure is still hanging off of his tongue.

“Seriously?” Oikawa mutters to Iwaizumi after practice. “He only ever listens to you! How is that fair?”

Iwaizumi shrugs. “Keep at it,” he advises. “Kyoutani’s probably the type who responds better to actions than words.”

“Ah, I see,” Oikawa says, nodding sagely. “A brawns-over-brains type, just like Iwa-chan!”

“Shut up,” Iwaizumi growls, elbowing Oikawa in the side.

“My point exactly!” Oikawa chirps, rubbing at his ribs.

Still, despite the fact that he wants Kyoutani to succeed, Iwaizumi still has his misgivings when he’s put into their match against Karasuno, Kunimi leaving the court to take his spot in the box with Yahaba and the others.

Iwaizumi glances once in Oikawa’s direction, one brown raised skeptically. But Oikawa merely smiles, eyes dark with purpose.

And of course, at first it’s a complete disaster. Kyoutani rushes for the ball, shoving Kindaichi out of the way and going for a spike that explodes on the other side of the net, but out of bounds. And at set point, no less.

Iwaizumi grits his teeth before calling Kyoutani out on his idiocy. Kyoutani, at least, has the decency to look somewhat abashed.

“I was stressed out because I hadn’t been put into the match yet,” he mutters, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “I had too much energy and it had to go _somewhere_. I wanted to at least make a point at the same time.”

Iwaizumi considers this. Maybe by shoving Kindaichi out of the way, Kyoutani had actually been trying to keep him out of the blast radius?

But then, over the course of the match, something extraordinary happens. Kyoutani’s first serve explodes in midair over the net, losing them a point. But the next time Kyoutani is headed for the back line, Oikawa taps him lightly between his shoulders.

“You can do this,” he says, with nothing other than conviction in his voice. 

Kyoutani shifts away from Oikawa, lips pressed tight together. But Oikawa doesn’t seem to mind, just shrugs and waltzes over to his own position on the court.

Kyoutani’s every movement seems to take an unprecedented amount of energy. When he jumps for his serve, every muscle in his body is pulled taught, his hands glowing a gentle sunset color that quickly surrounds the ball, as well.

Iwaizumi grits his teeth, preparing for the ball to burst over their heads, again. But instead it holds the glow as it zooms over them, past the net and into the far corner of the court. When it hits down, it explodes with a deafening impact, Karasuno’s captain edging away from it nervously. 

It’s a service ace.

Kyoutani’s eyes widen, and Iwaizumi spots the way his lips curve upwards slightly. It’s the closest thing to a smile that Iwaizumi’s ever seen from him. And he’s proud of that, proud that being on their team has somehow made Kyoutani happy, and proud of himself.

It’s as though all of those false starts, all of the friction, have worn away something and revealed the talent that Kyoutani’s always had. That isn’t to say that he plays perfectly, but his powers are far more controlled, and he’s more in tune to what the rest of the team is doing.

They call Yahaba out to the court as a pinch server a few points later, and Iwaizumi raises a brow at the charge of energy that seems to run between him and Kyoutani. Iwaizumi almost laughs—no one who hasn’t spent much time around Yahaba would think him capable of pushing Kyoutani up against the gymnasium wall, but for those of them who do know him, it isn’t so surprising. There’s a fire burning beneath his polite smiles and perfect etiquette.

He wonders if Kyoutani knows exactly how much Oikawa had done for Yahaba, enough to earn Yahaba’s fierce and unyielding loyalty.

(It had been last year, when Oikawa wasn’t even captain yet. He’d noticed Yahaba practicing half-heartedly with their other reserve setters and had skipped over to him, eyes assessing even as he chirped out an introduction.

“So,” he’d asked Yahaba, keen gaze fixed on his underclassman. “I don’t know what you can do, yet.”

Yahaba had smiled, but the expression was strained. “Nothing very useful,” he’d answered, and Iwaizumi, standing across the court, had recognized that exact brand of self-deprecation.

Oikawa recognized it, too. “Tell me anyway,” he’d insisted, lifting his chin.

Yahaba bit his lip, but it had already started. From between the panels of the gym floor, blush pink flowers were blooming, each with concentric circles of delicate petals. Oikawa crouched down to pick one, inhaling its scent delicately.

“Camellias,” he said. “Pretty.”

“They’re for admiration,” Yahaba said, unthinkingly. Then his cheeks colored violently and he clapped both of his hands over his face. “That is—I’m—I can’t control them, really. Or make them prehensile, or anything useful like that! They just sprout up based on what I’m feeling.”

“Hmm.” Oikawa tucked the camellia blossom behind one ear, and Iwaizumi turned forcefully away from the conversation to avoid looking at him. “Does that mean you can’t even grow us something to poison Ushiwaka-chan with?”

“N-no,” Yahaba said, still speaking from behind his hands. “Not on purpose, at least. Sorry.”

Oikawa leaned back from Yahaba’s space and barked out a laugh. “Why are you sorry? I mean, poisoning Ushiwaka-chan would be a lot of fun, but that’s not really the point. Anyway, you’re the best setter we have, other than me, of course. So you should be practicing with me.”

Yahaba’s face was scarlet, now. “Oikawa-san!”

Oikawa frowned at him. “What? You’re not going to tell me I’m wrong, are you? I know you’re observant, Yahaba. Don’t play dumb.”

“But I’m—I’m not exceptional,” Yahaba insisted. “We have setters who have really useful powers, they should be the ones you’re training—”

Oikawa’s frown took on a nasty edge, and he leaned forward again so quickly that Yahaba took two steps back in response.

“I don’t have a useful power,” he said flatly. “Are you going to tell me I don’t belong on the court, either?”

“Of course not.” Yahaba wasn’t hiding anymore, lifting his chin to meet Oikawa’s gaze. “But—”

“So what makes you and I so different, then?” Oikawa shook his head, then turned and draped one arm over Yahaba’s shoulders. “You’re a good player, Yahaba. And I’m going to turn you into a great one.”

Yahaba opened his mouth to respond, but Oikawa didn’t let him get a word in edgewise.

“Don’t refuse my very generous offer. Be a good underclassman and just smile and say thanks, okay?”

Yahaba rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Oikawa-san.”

And then they’d both laughed, Oikawa still with that pink blossom tucked into his hair.)

Now, Yahaba rushes forward to set the ball when Oikawa calls out to him. The ball leaves his fingertips at the wrong angle, but Kyoutani is running up to the net, overcompensating. His palm slams into the ball with a resounding sound.

Yahaba and Kyoutani look at each other with triumph in their eyes, and Iwaizumi thinks that they’ll be leaving the team in good hands, next year.

And it’s not just Yahaba and Kyoutani. Watari, when he’d first arrived at Seijoh, had been good at receiving because he could draw the ball towards him with an attractive force. But releasing it again had been an issue.

“Think of it like flirting,” Oikawa had said, laughing to himself, “You want to draw the ball in, but you definitely don’t want it to be around forever.”

“Don’t tell him useless shit like that,” Iwaizumi had ground out from between clenched teeth. As high school wore on, he was clenching his teeth more and more often. Oikawa kept saying stupider and stupider things.

But underneath his useless words was a serious dedication. “If you can draw things in, Watacchi, you should be able to push them away, too!”

And so Oikawa worked with Watari, exploring the bounds of his power, making it stronger and weaker as needed. Beyond that had been the skills they’d practiced together, tosses and receives that could be enhanced by powers but could also be dependable on their own.

Kindaichi has always been the most overawed by working with Oikawa. And that had been problematic, because his power is one built on confidence. When he believes he’ll be faster, he is. When he believes he’ll jump higher, he does. Oikawa had used that to their advantage in their first official match against Karasuno, goading Kindaichi by comparing him to Karasuno’s Number Ten.

“Aren’t you better than him?” Oikawa had asked, innocently, and Kindaichi’s pride had won out. He couldn’t actually believe that the little middle blocker could best him, and so that last critical block had been the product in Kindaichi’s faith in himself, sprouting from the seeds Oikawa had planted.

Practices hadn’t always been as successful. Oikawa tossed Kindaichi balls higher than he could comfortably hit, and when Kindaichi had asked for lower ones Oikawa merely smiled and shook his head.

“It’d be easier to do it that way, sure,” Oikawa commented lightly. “But I’m going to keep tossing you the higher ones, alright?”

Kindaichi didn’t have it in him to argue the point with Oikawa, but as Iwaizumi watched, Kindaichi began jumping just a bit higher, just a bit more consistently. And those skills grew and grew, his confidence building and his power growing more reliable as a result.

When he hits a spike from that high apex of the toss, slamming it down into the opposite court, Kindaichi’s face is all triumph. And the team, rushing up around him, feels it with him.

There’s no one on the team Oikawa hasn’t helped in that way. Matsukawa, Hanamaki… and of course, Iwaizumi himself. Oikawa has made them each stronger, better.

*

He’s had enough. Oikawa only keeps him at arm’s length when there’s something truly wrong, and Iwaizumi isn’t going to let him face his demons alone. Sometimes, he gets there too late, and Oikawa has already spiraled into despair or self-destruction. And Iwaizumi refuses to let that happen again.

He gets to his feet.

“I’m coming in,” he says, voice brokering no argument. He steps toward the door and grabs the handle, tugging at it with only a portion of his strength, intending to force the lock. 

Instead, there’s the sound of metal scraping against metal, and the door rips away from its hinges. Iwaizumi moves with his body’s momentum, lifting the door away from its frame and into the air, over his head.

He hadn’t intended to do that. He hasn’t exhibited so little control in _years_ , since—

Since the last time Oikawa had locked himself behind a door. 

He sets the door down gently, careful not to send it crashing through the floor with the strength he can’t properly control. But he quickly forgets about it, stepping into the club room and seeing Oikawa looking up at him through hazy eyes.

He’s sitting on the ground, back against a bench and arms hanging limply at his sides. His head is tilted back, the long line of throat visible at an almost painful angle. There’s sweat gathering at his brow and temples, the hair there darker with moisture. And below his hairline, the entirety of his face is flushed, skin pink and red.

Iwaizumi has never seen a person who looks more exhausted than Oikawa does at that moment. But the symptoms are familiar, reminiscent of a lesson he’d had years and years ago, when he’d first started staying after school for supplementary lessons on his powers.

 _Powers are tied to your physical and mental state_ , his teacher had said, and at eight years old the words hadn’t meant much to Iwaizumi. _But you have to be careful, because using your power too much or too intensely can lead to extreme fatigue. It’s important not to overexert yourself as you get used to your power_.

Iwaizumi’s never seen anyone use their power to the point of exhaustion, though after yesterday’s match both teams had looked a little worse for wear, the static energy of their powers hanging in the air without an outlet. Kageyama had looked about ready to double over, but Number Ten and their libero had tugged him along, glowing smiles on both of their faces despite their own fatigue.

But that doesn’t compare to how Oikawa is now. He’s breathing so heavily Iwaizumi would guess he’d just run a marathon if he didn’t know any better. He’d tilted his head a few centimeters to glance at Iwaizumi as he entered the room, but now Oikawa is just sitting there with half-closed eyes, as though he can’t even muster the strength to speak.

 _It’s important not to overexert yourself as you get used to your power_.

That can’t be it, because Oikawa doesn’t even _have_ a power. It’s not possible for Oikawa to have worked himself into this state, because there’s nothing drawing on his mental and physical strength.

But the proof is lying in front of him, and as Iwaizumi takes a few hesitant steps into the room he can feel the tiled floor shifting beneath his feet. The strength gathering in him has nowhere to go, making his steps heavy and leaving small imprints of his shoes against the floor every time he moves.

He’s not even calling on his strength, and it’s never been this potent, before. He can punch through walls if he’s worked himself up enough beforehand, and once Hanamaki dared him to lift his father’s car over his head, which he did for all of a few seconds before he was forced to set it down again. But this is so much different, a strength that radiates out from his center and impacts the world around him without his bidding, as if someone else has reached into his chest and is pulling the power out of him.

“It’s you,” Iwaizumi says, voice rough as he tries to piece it all together. “Oikawa, you’re—you’re the one who’s been making everyone’s powers act up, aren’t you?”

Oikawa blinks open his eyes blearily, looking at Iwaizumi with features that try to shift into some sort of expression. He settles on a tired smile eventually, shrugging one shoulder and then the other.

“Does that mean… it’s been there all along?” He wishes he knew more about the science of powers. Oikawa’s read all the books, obsessively follows the articles published in research journals. For years, he’d searched for any possible explanation for the fact that he’d been born without an ability.

Oikawa shrugs again, something like a laugh whistling out from between his teeth.

Iwaizumi kneels down beside Oikawa, a trail of cracked tile laid out behind him. Oikawa’s shut his eyes completely, now, and is taking measured breaths. He’s no stranger to exhaustion, having worked himself to the bone for years, but this must be an entirely new experience. And one he never thought to look for, because powers tend to come from and affect the person they’re connected to.

Oikawa’s does just the opposite.

“You’re an amplifier,” Iwaizumi says, hating how breathless and slow he sounds. “You’re making me—you’re making everyone stronger.”

*

Iwaizumi Hajime is fifteen years old when he realizes he’s in love. It’s a quiet feeling, one that’s been building within him for some time. But when they lose their final match of middle school to Shiratorizawa, and Oikawa drops to his knees in front of the net, rage and despair warring across his face, all Iwaizumi wants to do is hold him close and make the world pay for placing so much on his shoulders.

He can do neither of those things. Oikawa picks himself up eventually, and their team lines up and gives their thanks to the audience. They go home with silver medals around their necks, and Oikawa clutches the plaque he’d received as Best Setter in both hands, staring down at it with challenge in his eyes.

Oikawa falls asleep fifteen minutes into the bus ride, head lolling against Iwaizumi’s shoulder. And Iwaizumi has another hour to think about what exactly he’s going to do about the fact that he’s in love with his best friend.

He supposes he could tell Oikawa. But he already gets what seems like a dozen confessions a week, and though he preens at the attention Oikawa is distracted by those feelings for at most a few days. Then it’s back to the volleyball court to slam serves against the back wall, or to talk strategy with the coaches, or something else on his infinite list of things to do.

Oikawa has no time for romance, not when he’s determined to achieve his goals despite the fact that the world is set up for him to fail.

And if Oikawa doesn’t accept Iwaizumi’s feelings, what then? Will they lose the closeness between them, the bond that’s existed for longer than either of them can remember? Iwaizumi has always prided himself on being Oikawa’s strength, the one person he can count on unconditionally. And if Oikawa is going to achieve his goals, get into a powered high school and take down Shiratorizawa and make it to Nationals, then the last thing he needs is for his relationship with Iwaizumi to be in flux.

Iwaizumi doesn’t want to be a distraction. He wants to be there at Oikawa’s side when he achieves everything he’s ever dreamed of.

So he makes his decision, and for the next three years he never says a word to Oikawa about any of it. Even when Oikawa falls asleep on his bed when they’re up late studying, or when he goes out with one of the legion of girls who’s confessed to him and then gets broken up with a week later, or when they lose at every juncture to Shiratorizawa and sometimes cry against each other’s shoulders.

During their second year, Oikawa calls Iwaizumi past midnight.

“What is it,” Iwaizumi grouses, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“There’s no lying to Takeru, anymore,” Oikawa says simply. The words don’t really make sense to Iwaizumi, but he can hear the quiver in Oikawa’s voice.

“Why’re you lying to a seven-year-old in the first place?” Iwaizumi asks.

“He’s _eight_ ,” Oikawa says, voice breaking. “He’s eight, and he’s like a human polygraph, he knows if something’s true or not the instant someone says it, and—”

“Woah,” Iwaizumi says, sitting straight up in bed. “Calm down. _What_ happened?”

“Takeru got his power today,” Oikawa says, voice suddenly very quiet. “That’s every single member of my family, Iwa-chan. Every one. And not only do they all have powers, but they get them early, and they’re so strong.”

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi starts to say, but he doesn’t have a chance to finish the thought.

“What’s wrong with me?” Oikawa’s crying, Iwaizumi knows, and he hates it. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t even say anything all day, they were all so happy, so proud. I’ve never seen my dad like that, he’s never looked at me that way, and I’m jealous of an eight-year-old, Iwa-chan, what kind of person am I?”

“Shut up,” Iwaizumi says, so forcibly that the other end of the line goes silent. “Shut up, okay? I’m coming over. Leave your window open.”

It’s not precisely routine, because they’re in high school now and are supposed to be growing out of this habit. But Iwaizumi climbs the old tree beside Oikawa’s house and lets himself in through the window, and when Oikawa spots him neither of them say anything. Iwaizumi climbs onto Oikawa’s bed, and Oikawa rests his head against Iwaizumi’s chest, and at least for a moment there’s no need for words at all.

Iwaizumi wraps his arms around Oikawa, and Oikawa shakes against him, his entire body trembling as he tries to reign in his sobs.

Oikawa is an ugly crier. His skin turns a ruddy, mottled pink-and-red, his eyes wet and glassy as his nose leaks unattractively. He knows he looks his best with a smile on his face, white teeth glinting and thick lashes batting playfully at whoever happens to be looking at him. Now, he’s at his worst.

The last time Iwaizumi had seen him cry in public had been after their last middle school match. The losses after that had cut deeply, as well, but they didn’t have the same stark finality. Since then, Oikawa has learned to hold in his tears, at least until he’s sure no one else will be able to see them.

And yet, Iwaizumi has seen Oikawa cry countless times. Probably more than his mother or sister, even, at least over the past few years. This ugly, crying Oikawa is something precious, a facet of himself that Oikawa gives to no one else.

Iwaizumi holds him all the tighter, for that.

Oikawa glances up, blinking the tears from his eyes.

“What?” Iwaizumi asks.

“You’re being so gentle, Iwa-chan.” His voice is watery, but there’s the hint of a lilt in his use of the endearment, the shadow of his normally teasing tone.

Iwaizumi grimaces. “What, you want me to push you away, right now?”

Oikawa’s fingers hook into the fabric of his t-shirt and curl tightly, keeping Iwaizumi in place. “No,” he says, too quickly. “I just mean—you’re strong, you know? You could probably tear down this entire house, if you felt like it.”

He’s not sure he likes this line of reasoning. “I know that,” he says, pursing his lips.

“You could really hurt someone,” Oikawa says, curling closer instead of pulling away. “But you never have, have you?”

Iwaizumi feels all of the air abruptly leave his lungs. It’s not really in him to want to hurt someone—despite his normal demeanor he tends to like people, and his anger never reaches the icy cool of Oikawa’s grudges. He gets mad, reacts, and lets the emotion go, floating away like smoke into the air. Oikawa holds onto his negativity and lets it compress into something hard and undeniable, a diamond born of coal.

Oikawa reaches up, tapping Iwaizumi lightly on the forehead with the tips of his fingers.

“Don’t think about it so hard, Iwa-chan,” he says, and his voice is steadier now. “It’s a good thing, you know? I like that about you.”

Iwaizumi swallows convulsively. Oikawa hardly ever compliments him, even when he’s working so hard to build up every other member of their team. The confidence they have in each other is quieter, such a sure thing that it hardly needs to be spoken aloud. Iwaizumi knows Oikawa values him, cares about him. He’s never doubted that.

“I think about it a lot,” Oikawa continues. They’re still lying together, Iwaizumi’s arms wrapped around Oikawa’s shoulders. “I don’t know if I’d trust anyone else with a power like yours. I don’t think I’d trust them not to hurt someone.”

For a moment, Iwaizumi sees a younger Oikawa in front of him. He’s wearing his practice clothes from Kitagawa Daiichi, and there’s something dark flashing in his eyes as he raises a hand and prepares to strike out at the person in front of him.

Iwaizumi realizes, then, that Oikawa wouldn’t trust himself with powers like Iwaizumi’s.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi says, speaking aloud before he’s really formulated the words. He has to pause, actually put a sentence together before he continues. “Look, I don’t know how any of this works. It could all be completely random, but—”

“But powers tend to fit the person who has them, don’t they?” Oikawa says, voice purposefully light. He closes his eyes as he continues. “And what does that say about me, that nothing at all fit?”

Iwaizumi bites his tongue. He had come here intending to comfort Oikawa, but now it seems that he’s doing just the opposite.

“I don’t know,” he admits, after a long moment’s pause.

Oikawa sighs, fingers once again clenching into the cotton of Iwaizumi’s t-shirt. “That’s okay, Iwa-chan. I don’t expect you to have all the answers.”

“Then what do you want me to do?” Iwaizumi asks, because every time he thinks Oikawa’s worked past this, the issues rise again in more dramatic ways.

He closes his eyes, inhales deeply. “Just stay with me, okay?”

*

Oikawa’s eyes flutter closed as he tips to one side, body unable to hold itself up any longer. Iwaizumi reaches for him on instinct, gritting his teeth as he wills himself to keep his strength in check as he pulls Oikawa forward so that he’s leaning against Iwaizumi’s chest, both of them sitting against the bench.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi says, shaking Oikawa slightly. “Come on, wake up. You’ve got to get a hold of yourself, or you’re going to burn out. Come on, Oikawa. Look at me.”

It takes an eternity, but eventually Oikawa lifts his head and blinks open his eyes. They’re glassy and unfocused for a moment, pupils roaming until they meet Iwaizumi’s gaze and hold steady.

“I can feel it,” he says.

“What?”

“Your power,” Oikawa says, frowning slightly. “It’s like a thread. And if I tug on it, it gets stronger. Or maybe—like a plant? And I can water it, give it sunlight…”

“You’re not making any sense,” Iwaizumi says.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa continues breathlessly, “how do you turn it off?”

Iwaizumi starts laughing. He realizes it’s the completely wrong response, but it’s a question most people ask as children, middle schoolers. He doesn’t know if there’s ever been another eighteen-year-old who didn’t know how keep their power under control.

“It’s yours,” Iwaizumi says simply. “You can control it.”

Oikawa grimaces. “I know that. But _how_?”

Iwaizumi thinks back ten years, to his first supplementary classes. He’d been impatient with them, at first, resentful of the fact that Oikawa wasn’t there with him.

“You channel them into something,” Iwaizumi says. “You focus on what you want to use your power for, and then you get used to calling on it for only that.”

Oikawa smiles thinly. “And that’s why they had you start playing volleyball? Because you couldn’t think of anything else to focus on?”

“No,” Iwaizumi says, before he can think better of it. “I was focusing on you.”

Oikawa blinks up at him. “What?” The word comes out like a gasp, and at any other moment Iwaizumi would be pleased to finally see Oikawa at a loss for words.

At the moment, however, he knows he’s just started rolling down a hill and won’t be able to stop.

“I didn’t want to go to my lessons,” Iwaizumi explains. “Back when we were kids. And then my mom told me that if I didn’t learn how to control my power, I wouldn’t be able to play with you anymore. Or with anyone, I guess, but you were who I was focused on. Because if I couldn’t learn to reign in my strength, there was a good chance I might’ve ended up hurting you.”

Oikawa’s openly staring at him, now. “So when they told you to focus on something—”

Iwaizumi shrugs, because there’s no denying it now. “I was focused on you. Not always, after I’d gotten the hang of it. I’m not that far gone on you that I never think about anything else. But, I am.”

“You are?”

“Gone on you. I have been, for a long time.” It’s probably the wrong time to say it. But all the reasons Iwaizumi’s told himself for years no longer seem to matter. Because even without realizing it, Oikawa’s been supporting him, making him better, for years and years. His power, the purest expression of his self, is giving strength to others.

And if that isn’t something to admire, something to love, Iwaizumi isn’t sure what would be.

“Iwa-chan…”

Iwaizumi smiles, even though he’s sure he must be shaking all over. He reaches out and pulls Oikawa closer, until their foreheads are pressed together.

“So it’s okay, now. I’ll help you, even though I don’t think you really need it. You already know what to focus on.”

“I do?” Oikawa’s voice has taken on that teasing lilt again, the conversation serving as enough of a distraction that he’s regaining a bit of his strength.

“Not me, you asshole,” Iwaizumi grumbles. “Everyone. Our entire team—you’ve been doing it all along.”

Oikawa inhales shakily, eyes fluttering closed again. Iwaizumi isn’t sure what he’s seeing, in his mind’s eye, but the moment Iwaizumi tries to pull away Oikawa is there, hands around Iwaizumi’s wrists, holding him in place.

“You’re all here,” he says, eyes still closed as he smiles shakily. And for a moment afterwards, he’s completely silent. But then Iwaizumi feels _something_ , the tug of a presence against his chest, like the thread Oikawa had described earlier is real.

If Oikawa’s always had this ability, he must be surrounded by dozens of threads, one for each of the people he’s met in his lifetime. But surely the one linking him to Iwaizumi must be the strongest, vibrant and red.

When Oikawa opens his eyes again, the air feels cleaner, calmer, the nervous static energy dissipated.

Iwaizumi leans back, letting out a sigh of relief. “You can’t do anything halfway, can you?” he grouses.

Oikawa’s still breathing heavily, but now he’s eyeing Iwaizumi with intense focus in his brown eyes. It’s the same look he gets when he’s about to hit a service ace, when he sees a goal and knows, without a doubt, that he can attain it.

“No,” he says, voice steady. “I can’t.”

And then he pushes forward, one hand around the back of Iwaizumi’s neck and the other tugging on his shoulder, pulling them closer together until he can plant his lips against Iwaizumi’s.

Oikawa’s dated a handful of girls since they’d entered high school, though none of his relationships had lasted for longer than a week or two. But Iwaizumi’s never heard him talk about kissing, before. He’s never wanted to ask.

And honestly, nothing would have done this moment justice. Oikawa’s nails are sharp against the back of Iwaizumi’s neck, and for a moment Iwaizumi forgets to do anything with his own hands, he’s so caught up in the feeling of Oikawa’s lips against his.

But then he remembers himself, and reaches out to place his hands on either side of Oikawa’s waist, holding him close. His lungs are demanding he break for air within a few minutes, but he ignores them in favor of licking across Oikawa’s lips.

In the back of his mind, he’s dimly aware of the fact that they need to go back to the gym, to make sure that the others are alright. And after that, Oikawa will need to report to the principal, maybe see the specialist. They’ll have to make sure he really does have his power under control, that this won’t happen again. 

And yet, in this moment, Iwaizumi can’t really make himself care about any of that.

It’s Oikawa who pulls away first, gasping for air, but still pressed close against Iwaizumi.

“So—how long have you been in love with me?” he asks, arching one eyebrow.

“Did I say that?” Iwaizumi snaps, because he knows from experience that if he gives Oikawa even an inch, he’ll take a mile and more.

Oikawa runs his tongue over his lips, already red from kissing. There’s fatigue lingering in his eyes and the shaky way he lifts his head, hair matted to his forehead with sweat. But his expression is sly.

“That’s what you _meant_ ,” he says, tilting his head, daring Iwaizumi to disagree.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “Yeah,” he admits. “That’s what I meant.”

Oikawa smiles, then, and there’s no meanness in the expression. It isn’t a sweet smile, or an innocent one. But it’s tender, full of an affection that Iwaizumi has always felt but has never seen so clearly on Oikawa’s face.

His heart somersaults in his chest, and he knows he’s doomed.

“Good,” Oikawa says, reaching out to take Iwaizumi’s hand. “Because I’m kind of in love with you, too.”

“ _Kind of_.” 

Oikawa purses his lips, and from the way he tilts his head away, Iwaizumi knows he’d be blushing if his skin wasn’t already too warm and red.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says, poking him gently in the side.

He squeaks, shifting away further, covering his face with his hands. “Oh, shut up, Iwa-chan! You were the one who said it first, that’s definitely more embarrassing.”

Iwaizumi leans back at that, crossing his arms over his chest. He scoffs. “You’re obviously the more embarrassing one, here.”

Oikawa blinks up at him from between his fingers. His eyes are dark, smoldering with the same inner fire that Iwaizumi has been following his entire life.

“Maybe,” Oikawa admits. “But you’re the one who’s been in love with such an embarrassing person, and what does that say about you?”

Hearing Oikawa say it so easily, like an established fact, makes Iwaizumi’s chest constrict, his heart beating against his ribcage in triple time. And maybe he’s been foolish, to keep this a secret for so long. He’s never doubted Oikawa on anything—why had this been so different?

And then he’s struck by the idea that he wants to see Oikawa really blush, at a moment when Iwaizumi will be able to see the rosy color spread across his cheeks and know that he’s the reason for it.

“Fuck,” Iwaizumi says, under his breath. “I really am.”

Oikawa lifts his chin. “What?”

“In love with you,” Iwaizumi says, and now he’s covering his own face, laughing into his palms like that will do anything to muffle the noise. “I really am in love with you.”

He feels Oikawa tugging on his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. When he looks up Oikawa is kneeling over him, looking down on Iwaizumi with an expression he can’t begin to read—his eyes are wide and bright, lips curved into a smile that’s soft and tender and amused, teeth just bared visible.

“I’m glad,” Oikawa says, softly. He sucks in a deep breath, and then says, all in a rush, “I felt so empty, sometimes, and you were always there to be what I needed. And I couldn’t ask you for more, not when I was already so sure you were going to figure out I wasn’t worth it, and leave—”

“ _Hey_.” Iwaizumi claps his hands on either side of Oikawa’s face, smooshing his cheeks and dragging him down to eye level. “Did you really think that I’d ever leave?”

Oikawa shakes his head. “No,” he admits. “But that made it scarier, somehow.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t know how to respond to that. So he tips his head up again to kiss Oikawa soundly, and he gets the angle a bit better this time, can feel the soft brush of Oikawa’s skin against his cheek and the slight quiver of his lips.

And then he feels it again, that tug at his chest, like Oikawa’s found a direct line to his heart and is pulling it straight out of his chest.

It scares him, so he releases his hold on Oikawa and sits back, breathing heavily. “I didn’t hurt you?” he asks, immediately.

Oikawa shakes his head. “No,” he says, reaching up to massage his temples. “No, I just—I can’t help it, I want to—”

Iwaizumi wonders, again, how much Oikawa’s powers are tied to his closeness to people. Whether the reason they awoke today is because he’s so desperate to keep his team around him, to make them the best that they can be.

“You know,” he says, conversationally. “I got my powers so early—”

“I know.” Oikawa’s voice is flat, lips curving into a pout.

“And so did Takeru,” Iwaizumi keeps going.

Oikawa blinks at him. “So?”

Iwaizumi shrugs. “I can’t think of anyone else you spent as much time with, before they got their powers. So maybe being around you was like—a kickstart?”

Oikawa looks up at him owlishly, and then something dark crosses his features. “You must be joking,” he groans. 

“It makes sense,” Iwaizumi insists.

“It does,” Oikawa agrees, but he drags one hand down his face. “But that just means—it’s not fair!”

“What?” Iwaizumi leans back on his hands. “That you were bringing out the best in everyone around you, when you were trying to bring out the best in yourself?”

Oikawa stutters, gaping at Iwaizumi for a moment before he draws up his legs, pressing his forehead against his knees. “Don’t say it like that,” he says, voice muffled. “I wasn’t doing it on purpose. _I_ wanted to be the best. I still do.”

Iwaizumi shuffles closer, wraps his arms around Oikawa and nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

“And now it’s still—” Oikawa cuts himself off with a choked noise, tears glistening against his lashes. “Why now? And not yesterday, when it would’ve mattered? Or any of the times we were up against Ushiwaka, or—”

He’s shaking. The emotions are overwhelming, cresting over him like a wave, and all Iwaizumi can do is hold onto him while Oikawa cries for his own sake, because he’s never been able to do for himself what he does for others.

“You did good,” Iwaizumi says, hands stroking gently up and down Oikawa’s back. “You were perfect, Tooru. Whether you knew what you were doing, or not.”

It’s hard to tell how long they stay like that—Oikawa pushes his head into the juncture between Iwaizumi’s neck and shoulder and inhales deeply, and Iwaizumi keeps perfectly still, not sure what else to do. He can feel moisture against his skin, and Oikawa’s fingers digging into his shirt. The world stands still, for what seems like an eternity.

And then, Oikawa pushes back and sighs. “If we’re going to get back downstairs, you’re probably going to have to carry me,” he says airily. “I don’t think I can stand.”

Maybe he doesn’t mean for Iwaizumi to take him seriously. But Iwaizumi grins at him, pulling back slightly so that he can grip Oikawa around his shoulders and under his knees, lifting him up in one fluid motion. Oikawa isn’t small or weightless by any measure, but to Iwaizumi he feels light as a kitten.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, squirming slightly.

“You need to go to the nurse.” Iwaizumi cuts him off. “Until you get your powers under control, you’re a danger to yourself and others.”

“Rude,” Oikawa complains, punching Iwaizumi in the shoulder. But he settles, resting his head against Iwaizumi’s collarbone and humming softly to himself as Iwaizumi carries him out of the club room.

“You know,” he says, a few minutes later, tugging on Iwaizumi’s shirt, “Now that I know what this is, we’re going to be unstoppable.”

He’s looking up at Iwaizumi with fire in his eyes, determined and calculating.

Iwaizumi shakes his head. “You’re terrifying,” he says.

Oikawa smiles sweetly. “But you love me.”

There’s no arguing with that, so Iwaizumi merely ducks his head a bit to plant a kiss against Oikawa’s forehead.

*

It’s three weeks later when the third years show up again to volleyball practice, this time in the afternoon. The gym had been closed for three days for repairs, the vines dug up and the flooring replaced. After that, Oikawa had quietly suggested that they let the new team get its bearings, and the others agreed.

Still, it’s strange waking up an hour and a half later each morning, focusing instead on prospective universities and looming exams. Oikawa’s busy, a lot of the time, on the phone with scouts when he isn’t tagging along to Takeru’s elementary powers class. His nephew has gotten a few good laughs about leading Oikawa by the hand to the elementary school, explaining focusing techniques to him in a didactic tone.

(But, a week and a half ago, Iwaizumi had sat down to dinner with the entire Oikawa clan and found himself on the receiving end of a fearsome stare.

“I never told him, you know,” Takeru said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Huh?” Iwaizumi answered intelligently, mouth half-full.

“Tooru,” Takeru said, rolling his eyes. “I never told him about all those times you lied, saying you didn’t like him or you thought he was ugly. But it was really, really obvious.”

“Are you sure you’re only eight?” Iwaizumi asked.

“Nine, now,” Takeru said, lifting his chin and looking down his nose, an expression that was one hundred percent Oikawa. “Remember to clear your plate, don’t just eat the tofu, Hajime!”)

Now, every morning when he passes Oikawa’s house, he’s waiting for Iwaizumi on the corner, clicking through his phone and chuckling slightly to himself. When he notices Iwaizumi, Oikawa looks up and smiles, then holds out his hand expectantly.

And even though his cheeks color red, Iwaizumi grips Oikawa’s hand in his own and they walk to school like that, fingers linked and arms swinging between them.

After class, Iwaizumi meets Oikawa outside the club room, Hanamaki and Matsukawa following close behind. There’s a sense of change amongst the four of them. Hanamaki and Matsukawa are staying in Miyagi for university, while Oikawa decided on Tokyo last week. Iwaizumi hasn’t made it official, but the four of them know he’ll be following Oikawa.

Even now, they’re seeing less of each other. Lunch together and study sessions in Iwaizumi’s living room can’t make up for two practices a day and weeks that were overtaken by training camps and tournaments.

“Stop looking so glum, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, stepping forward and tapping two fingers under Iwaizumi’s chin, lifting his head. “Yahaba’s going to think you don’t like the way he runs practice, or something. We have to be supportive!”

Matsukawa huffs a laugh, and Hanamaki rolls his eyes.

“He doesn’t need that much encouragement,” Hanamaki says, lips pulled into a thin smile.

“Word on the street is that he’s a bit of a tyrant,” Matsukawa continues.

“I wonder who he learned that from,” Hanamaki asks, batting his eyelashes as Matsukawa dissolves into laughter.

“Hey!” Oikawa protests. “And anyway, you can’t take anything Kunimi-chan says for granted! He thinks _everyone_ is a tyrant.”

“And he’s usually right,” Iwaizumi says, shaking his head.

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa rounds on him, pointing in his direction. “You are my boyfriend! You’re supposed to support me!”

“I thought I was supposed to be supporting Yahaba, right now?” Iwaizumi asks.

“Ugh, forget it.” Oikawa stomps away while Matsukawa and Hanamaki laugh behind him, and Iwaizumi is smiling before he even realizes it.

They approach the gym a few minutes later, Oikawa leading the pack of them as he slides open the doors and they’re accosted by the sound of sneakers squeaking against the floors and volleyballs slamming into the back wall.

“Oh,” Oikawa calls out, shielding his eyes with one hand as he looks around like an explorer surveying a great plain, “Looking good, everyone!”

The movement in the gym pauses for just a moment, before Yahaba waves everyone back to their drills. He steps off the court himself, though, and comes to greet them.

“You made it,” he says with a smile, even as he reaches up to brush his sweaty hair back into place.

“We said we would, didn’t we?” Matsukawa says easily. “Say, is it true that every time Kyoutani serves, you just happen to be out of rotation?”

Hanamaki steps forward, nodding sagely. “But that makes sense, you know. He’s the captain, he needs the right _vantage point_. Isn’t that right, Yahaba?”

Yahaba’s cheeks tinge pink, and slim stems grow up from his feet, thin enough to fit through the floor without damaging it. They sprout wide green leaves, and purple flowers that hang in bunches, upside down.

Prince’s feather, Iwaizumi remembers.

“Hey!” A voice calls out from across the gym, and then Kyoutani is walking towards them, looking murderous. “Are you just going to stand around, or are you going to run practice, _Captain_?”

Yahaba chokes, but immediately his expression shifts into one of defiance. He puts his hands on his hips. “You’re the only one who isn’t doing what he’s supposed to be, Kyoutani-kun,” he says, and his voice is sugar and steel all at once.

“He’s right,” Watari puts in. “You just walked away from our drill, I was going to receive for you.” When Kyoutani starts grumbling under his breath, Watari turns his head to wink at Yahaba.

Kyoutani turns back to the court, leaving Yahaba staring after him, shaking his head. The prince’s feathers have stopped growing, but now they’re being replaced by a multitude of flowers in different colors—bright yellow primrose, four-petal purple lilac, and bold red rosebuds.

“Interesting,” Oikawa says, and as he strokes his chin thoughtfully the flowers continue to grow in greater numbers.

It takes Yahaba a moment to notice, but when he does he turns around presses his lips into a firm line. “Oikawa-san,” he says with stressed patience. “Can we please try to not wreck the gym again, today?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oikawa laughs, reaching down to press his nose into the roses. “This is all you, Yahaba.”

“ _Oikawa-san_.”

And then Oikawa is throwing back his head and laughing, and Iwaizumi finds himself staring at the line of Oikawa’s neck, the glint of his teeth, the pink of his lips. It hasn’t been so long, yet, that Oikawa being able to control his powers at will is still novel. And Yahaba, who prides himself on his steely control, can’t possibly be enjoying Oikawa drawing out his subconscious emotions for the entire world to see.

“It’s alright,” Oikawa says after a moment, ruffling Yahaba’s hair. “I doubt Kyouken-chan has read up on much flower language.”

“That’s not the point,” Yahaba mutters, batting the flowers away from his ankles.

“I’m going to go help Kindaichi and Kunimi-chan practice!” Oikawa decides, and then he’s jogging across the gym. Matsukawa and Hanamaki follow close behind, pausing to watch Watari and Kyoutani run drills and give helpful commentary. When Oikawa approaches, Kindaichi looks up excitedly, and immediately he and Oikawa put their heads together. Kunimi stands off to one side until Kindaichi pulls him into their huddle, and a moment later the three of them are laughing together.

“You’re not going to join us, Iwaizumi-san?” Yahaba asks, pulling Iwaizumi away from his thoughts. Yahaba’s holding an armful of flowers, primroses and lilacs, probably about to go dump them outside.

“You missed the roses,” Iwaizumi says, glancing down at the blood red buds.

Yahaba shakes his head. “Those were Oikawa-san’s fault. So you can figure out something to do with them—maybe he’d like a bouquet from you, Iwaizumi-san.” 

Now Iwaizumi is sure that his own cheeks are as red as the roses. Yahaba’s already sauntering off to dispose of the other flowers, and Iwaizumi kneels down to gather the roses, mindful of thorns.

It’s comforting being back in the gym, even though it hasn’t been so long since they’d officially left the team. Iwaizumi gathers up the roses, laying them on the coaches’ bench before he heads over to Watari and Kyoutani’s court, determined to hit some spikes before practice is over.

Two hours later, tired and accomplished, Iwaizumi and Oikawa make their way home, Oikawa’s arms laden with a pile of red roses.

“Yahaba really underestimates himself,” Oikawa is saying, sniffing at the buds again. “Not that many people can create something from nothing at all.”

“And then there’s you,” Iwaizumi says, “And you’re probably going to keep bragging about your power until the end of time.”

“I’m entitled to, don’t you think?” Oikawa asks, tilting his head down to look at Iwaizumi. The afternoon sun filters through his hair, making various strands shine bronze and gold.

Iwaizumi huffs. “No, not really.” But he’s thinking back to practice, and the joy on Kindaichi’s face when he’d hit a particularly difficult spike, and how Oikawa had been right beside him, reaching up for a high-five before the ball had even landed inbounds.

“You’re supposed to be nice to me,” Oikawa says mildly, running his fingers through the roses’ silky petals.

“Is that right?” Iwaizumi asks, feigning incredulity.

“Yes,” Oikawa says, before he sticks his tongue out in Iwaizumi’s direction.

Iwaizumi reaches out and raps his knuckles against Oikawa’s forehead, ignoring the resulting yelp. “Actually, I think I’m supposed to be mean to you, so you don’t forget the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“The universe doesn’t revolve around a single point, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says pointedly. “Now, _galaxies_ have active centers, so that might make a better metaphor—”

Iwaizumi shakes his head, pressing his hand over Oikawa’s mouth. “I wasn’t asking for an astronomy lesson.”

Oikawa tugs Iwaizumi’s hand away, frowning at him. “That really was mean!”

“You were trying to distract me,” Iwaizumi tells him. “And I’d rather you just tell me what it is you’re worried about.”

Oikawa heaves a heavy sigh, titling his head up towards the sky. “They will be alright, won’t they?”

Iwaizumi pauses in his steps, blinking. “Who, the team? Of course they will. Yahaba’s already got them jumping on command, and Kyoutani’s gonna make a good ace. He just needs some work, first. Plus, I have a feeling Watari’s going to keep them all in line, more than anyone else.”

“Kindaichi and Kunimi-chan are going to get really strong,” Oikawa says, eyes lighting up at the thought. “We’ll have to round up Makki and Mattsun and all go watch the InterHigh, next year.”

“Of course, we will.” As if there had even been a question, about that. “And?” Iwaizumi prompts, after a moment.

“Hm?” Oikawa blinks at him.

“What else is on your mind?”

Oikawa wets his lips with his tongue. “A lot of things, I guess,” he says after a moment.

“But right now, specifically,” Iwaizumi insists, reaching out to circle one hand around Oikawa’s wrist.

Oikawa sighs, shoulders dropping. “It’s nothing, really. But it’s always a little scary, isn’t it? Moving on, to a new team. You kept saying that I made our team strong, but I think it was really the other way around. Even when I didn’t think I had much to offer them, our team made me strong.”

“We’ll find it, again,” Iwaizumi says. “The next team we’re on, it’ll be different. But you can do it again. You’ll make them stronger, and they’ll do the same for you.”

Oikawa’s already nodding along, before his eyes widen in recognition. “ _We_?”

Iwaizumi nods his head slowly. “Obviously. It’s not safe to let you out into the world on your own, is it?”

Oikawa grabs the collar of Iwaizumi’s shirt, tugging him closer so that he can plant two kisses against his lips in quick succession. “I can’t believe you,” he says after a moment’s pause, lips still hovering a hair’s span away from Iwaizumi’s.

A gust of wind blows past them, plucking the red petals off of the roses and pulling them along.

Iwaizumi shrugs, smiling helplessly. “I guess I just want to keep watching you grow.”

*

“ _Today might be the day to grasp the chance to let your talent bloom_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a brief guide to yahaba's flowers  
> \- cactus | hostility, surviving challenges, and either lust or chastity  
> \- prince's feather | embarrassment  
> \- primrose | young love, bashfulness  
> \- purple lilac | first feelings of love  
> \- red rose | romantic feelings 
> 
> thank you for reading! your comments are always appreciated. 
> 
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